No title

j ou r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s | vol. lxi1 | no. 2 | au t u m n 2011

Custom, ordinance or commandment? The evolution of the medieval monetary-tithe in Ashkenaz J u da h Ga li n sk y B a r - I l a n U n i v e r s i t y, R a m a t G a n, I s r a e l

a b s t r ac t In this study the author describes the evolution of the medieval monetary-tithe (ma‘sar kesafim) in Germany from the late twelfth century until the fifteenth century. He traces the references to the practice found in rabbinic literature and describes the developments that occurred in terms of its practice and with regard to its perception. The monetary-tithe first appears in rabbinic sources in the late twelfth century and early thirteenth century as an established practice, but one whose character is that of a pious custom. Later on, during the late thirteenth century, there is evidence that in certain communities the tithe became part of public policy, as part of an initiative to organize communal charity. And finally during the fifteenth century, again at least in certain areas, the practice is described as a rabbinic commandment incumbent upon all segments of society.

I

n t h e book Our Crowd, a work chronicling the lives of the affluent New York Jews at the beginning of the twentieth century, we meet, among others, the famous financier Jacob Schiff, a German Jew.1 Our interest in Schiff lies in his attitude towards his own acts of charity, which Stephen Birmingham, the author, describes in the following lines:2 He [i.e. Schiff] had always believed in the principle of zedakah, the charity which literally means ‘justice’. During his youth in Germany, he recalled, ‘Kindliness was the keynote of the household and from the first ten-pfennig piece that was received as an allowance it was made our duty to put one-tenth

I would like to thank Avraham (Rami) Reiner and Susan Einbinder for the advice, suggestions and criticism that led to the improvement of this study. 1. Stephen Birmingham, Our Crowd: The Great Jewish Families of New York (New York, 1967). 2. Ibid, 324–5. I would like to thank Paul Mandel for drawing my attention to this passage. The italics in the passage (besides the words zedakah in the first sentence and the word had in the last) are not found in the original but were added by the author.

204 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es aside for charity, according to the old Jewish tradition.’ He had continued this 10 percent tithing system throughout his life and, though he was called one of New York’s foremost philanthropists, he insisted that only what he had given above and beyond this figure could be considered ‘philanthropy’. He once startled a wellmeaning woman who congratulated him on a particular large gift by saying, somewhat abruptly, ‘That wasn’t my money.’ He meant, of course, that the gift came from the one-tenth of his income that he felt had to be given away.

Schiff was convinced that tithing and charity were to be viewed as two distinct acts of religious piety. The purpose of this study is to clarify how and when this perception was formed in the collective Ashkenazi ‘mind’. I intend to describe the evolving nature of the monetary-tithe in the medieval Jewish communities of Germany, ‘ma‘sar kesafim’, as documented in the rabbinic sources, and to explain how a certain perception of tithing, exemplified in the deeds of Jacob Schiff, came to be dominant amongst large segments of German Jewry.3

Monetary tithe as a pious custom The earliest explicit medieval sources relating to the monetary tithe as an existing practice are to be found in the legal compendium of Isaac b. Moses’ Or Zarua, a scholar active in the first half of the thirteenth century,4 where it is mentioned four times.5 Three of the four citations are from Isaac’s pen and one is from the work of his teacher Eliezer b. Joel ha-Levi, Rabiah, of Bonn, a scholar active at the end of the twelfth and the beginning of the thirteenth century. All four references to the monetary tithe indicate that the custom was already well established at the time. A close examination of each of the sources will clarify its character. 3. The scholarly literature on medieval tithing, ma‘sar kesafim, is quite meagre. The latest and most important study is that of Jay Rovner in his preface to ‘Please help me tithe unto you’: the Ma‘sar Kesafim (income tithe) Ledger of Mordecai Zeev Ehrenpreis of Lvov (New York/Jerusalem, 2003), particularly 11–36. I will be revisiting many of the sources quoted by Rovner. For previous treatments, both academic and non-academic, see the bibliography in Rovner’s book, 69–77. I will note that the two most accessible collections of primary and secondary rabbinic sources on the topic remain Abraham M. Albert, Ma‘sar Kesafim (Hebrew) (Jerusalem, 1977) and Cyril Domb, Maaser Kesafim: On Giving a Tenth to Charity (Jerusalem, 1980 revised edition 1992). 4. Due to Isaac Or Zarua’s extensive travels and his accurate transcription of ancient and contemporary sources, his work is essential to any historical research of medieval Ashkenazi practice. See recently Avraham (Rami) Reiner, ‘From Rabbenu Tam to R. Isaac of Vienna: the Hegemony of the French Talmudic school in the twelfth century’, in The Jews of Europe in the Middle Ages (Tenth to Fifteenth Centuries, ed. Christoph Cluse (Brepols, 2004), 273–82 and E.E. Urbach, The Tosafists (Hebrew) (Jerusalem, 1980), 436–47. 5. In the appendix to this study I will begin to address the references to tithing as found in the medieval communal ordinances.

t h e m e d i e va l m o n e t a r y- t i t h e i n a s h k e n a z | 2 0 5 The earliest source originally appeared in the work Avi Assaf by Rabiah, and has been preserved in Or Zarua, Laws of Charity.6 When discussing whether the administrator [i.e. gabbai] of the communal charity was allowed to borrow money in order to assist the poor,7 Rabiah describes what seems to have been a common practice of lending money to a pauper at the beginning of the year in lieu of monies that he regularly sets aside throughout the course of the year ‘ for charity and for tithing’ (al ha-tsedakot ve-ha-ma‘aser she-ragil liten). In such a situation the charitable lender would deduct throughout the year, as payment for the loan, from the charity and tithing money that he would have normally transferred to the poor. The above passage may not be too detailed regarding the practice of tithing, nevertheless it does indicate that the monetary-tithe was an existing practice and that, just as private charity, it was left to the discretion of the donor to distribute to the poor of his choice. Two additional references in Or Zarua corroborate these initial impressions. In his Laws of Charity,8 Isaac refers to a Mishnah that discusses the biblical obligation of the poor man’s tithe from agricultural produce. He deduces that one who sets aside monetary-tithe from his earnings or promises to donate money as charity to the poor of the city or to the poor in general, is allowed to distribute up to fifty percent of the charity, or of the tithe, to his own relatives. The remaining fifty percent of the funds are to be distributed to the paupers of his community.9 To quote: 10 And from here [i.e. the Mishnah in Peah relating to the agricultural poor man’s tithe], I the author have derived that an individual who set aside a tithe from his monetary earnings (she-‘iser et mamono) or gave a certain amount of his money to charity, that he may distribute to his own relatives up to a half of the charity or of the tithe as we have found regarding the poor man’s tithe … And the way I see it this is an fortiori argument (ve-ro’ah ani she-ha-devarim kal va 6. Or Zarua (Zhitomir, 1862), vol. 1, 18a [siman 27]. It is worth noting that this responsum is quoted in She’elot U-teshuvot Maharil le-R. Yaakov Molin, ed. Yitzchok Satz (Jerusalem, 1980), 53 [siman 54] directly from the Rabiah’s lost legal work, Avi Assaf. For all known information on Rabiah’s lost work see Simha Emanuel, Fragments of the Tablets: Lost Books of the Tosaphists (Hebrew) (Jerusalem, 2006), 86–100. With regard to Maharil’s use of this work see 99 n. 215. 7. The legal issue discussed by Rabiah is whether the gabbai, the executor of the public charitable fund, who borrowed the money [for the sake of the poor] can pay back the debt from money of the general charity fund [when money comes in] or must he first receive permission from the members of the community. 8. Or Zarua, Laws of Charity, 17a–17b [siman 22]. 9. Isaac adds later in the passage that in his opinion if the donor did not allocate the money ‘for the poor of the community’ or ‘for the Jewish poor throughout the world’ but merely set aside the money ‘for charity’ without specifying the recipient, then he may give all of it to his poor relatives. 10. Or Zarua, Laws of Charity, 17a [siman 22].

206 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es ḥomer): just as the Torah [legally] awarded the poor man’s tithe to the poor and

obligated the owner of the field to tithe, still permitted [partial] distribution to his relatives, so too charity that a person gives of his own accord (ha-tsedaka she-adam noten mi-da‘ato) surely he may give to his relatives up to half of it.

It appears that Isaac understood the act of monetary-tithing as a voluntary act, since he classifies it together with private charity as ‘charity that a person gives of his own accord’ and not as a religiously mandated obligation, such as the biblical agricultural tithe. Furthermore, we note the absence of any reference to the administrator of the communal charity, the gabbai tsedaka, in the tithing process. The donor may distribute all his charity directly to the poor.11 Another passage, found in Isaac’s legal discussions of tractate Bava Batra, relates to the case of a donor who periodically allotted his monetary-tithe or his charity money that was not from his tithe (she-‘iser mamono o natan mamono le-tsedaka kakh belo ‘isur) to a particular indigent Jew who happened to die before collecting his due. The discussion centered on whether the tithe-money set aside now belonged to the pauper’s children. Isaac ruled that the money belonged to the pauper and his children:12 Since he [i.e. the donor] [regularly] set aside the money for charity or as tithe (tsedaka o ma‘aser), the pauper then [actually] acquired the portion that he usually gave him, even though it had not yet come into his possession, [and that is because] he [i.e. the donor] may not retract [from his commitment to the recipient], this is how it seems to me.

In this case Isaac was referring to what seemed to have been a common practice, which is to set aside during the course of the year a certain sum of charity or ten percent of one’s earnings to be given to a specific pauper. Here again, as in the cases discussed above, it is quite evident that the donor is the one who sets aside the tithe and is responsible for its distribution to the poor. Significantly, all three sources mentioned above emphasize the personal and voluntary nature of the tithe, akin to private charity, that is, a voluntary religious duty undertaken by the individual. In fact, in this context and time frame, the terms ‘tithe’ and ‘private charity’ seem to be interchangeable. 11. It is worth comparing Isaac’s approach to the monetary tithe with that of R. Joseph Ḥayim brought below. They both make use of the same source (Mishnah Peah) and even come to the same conclusion but are clearly relating to different social realities. 12. Or Zarua (Jerusalem, 1888–1890), 27a [Bava Batra chapter 8, siman 81]. See below the responsum of R. Meir of Rothenburg who used the same legal reasoning in order to prohibit the utilization of tithe money for religious needs other than of charity to the poor.

t h e m e d i e va l m o n e t a r y- t i t h e i n a s h k e n a z | 2 0 7 A fourth passage in Or Zarua relating to the medieval monetary tithes conveys even more clearly the affinity between the monetary-tithe and voluntary private charity. In his Laws of Charity, siman 13, Isaac begins with a quotation from the Babylonian Talmud (Ta‘anit 9a) that discusses biblically mandated agricultural tithes. Relying on word play, the Talmud derives from the verse in Deuteronomy 14:22 ‘Aser Ta‘aser ‘Thou shalt truly tithe, the following lesson: ‘Aser Ta‘aser – tithe (‘aser) so that you may acquire wealth (tit‘asher). The Talmud also derives from the verse ‘Bring ye the whole tithe into the storehouse etc … And try Me now herewith (Malachi 3:10)’ that upon tithing man may ‘try God’, that God increase his wealth. After quoting at length from the Talmud on this issue, Isaac adds a few words of his own, which made this passage very relevant to his medieval audience:13 We have learned [from the above Talmudic passage] that man is commanded to tithe his money (le-‘aser et mamono). And the more one increases his tithe (marbe be-ma‘asrot) the more one’s wealth increases.14 And he who increases his charity, over and above what he gave for tithing (ve-hamarbe be-tsedaka yoter min ha-ma‘asrot), is to be praised.

It is far from clear how Isaac derived from the Talmudic passage the lesson that there is an obligation to tithe one’s money,15 since both verses (Deuteronomy and Malachi) cited refer to agricultural tithes. For our purpose, however, we may be able to shed some light on how Isaac perceived the relationship between monetary tithes and private charity. Isaac Or Zarua felt that the monetary-tithe was a form of private charity, albeit one that included a fixed percentage, a tenth, of one’s earnings. Interestingly, though Isaac writes about being commanded to tithe one’s earnings he 13. Or Zarua, Laws of Charity, 15b [siman 13]. 14. I understand this phrase as encouraging the individual to expand his income and possessions that are to be tithed. For example in addition to tithing one’s yearly profit one could tithe the gifts received during the course of the year. See below the formulation of Sefer Ḥasidut and that of Rosh in his tithe ordinance. 15. It is possible that Or Zarua was thinking of the passage quoted in Pesikta de-Rav Kahana, piska 10:10 that derives from the same verse, from the superfluous words ‘et kol’ – that one should tithe all of one’s earnings. See Pesikta de-Rab Kahana: R. Kahana’s Compilation of Discourses for Sabbaths and Festal Days, translated from the Hebrew and Aramaic by William G. Braude and Israel J. Kapstein (Philadelphia, 1978), 197. See as well Pesikta Rabbati, piska 25; Pesikta Rabbati: Discourses for Feasts, Fasts, and Special Sabbaths, translated from the Hebrew by William G.Braude (New Haven, 1968), 515. On the heavy use of Pesikta Rabbati among Ashkenazi scholars from the twelfth century onwards see L. Zunz, Die gottesdienstlichen Vorträge der Juden: historisch entwickelt (Hebrew edition, revised by H.  Albeck) (Jerusalem, 1974), 118–19. In addition see my brief discussion below (n. 25) of Tosafot Ta’anit 9a that is closely related to these sources.

208 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es did not perceive monetary tithing religiously binding as much as the biblical commandment of agricultural tithing. Moreover, he never indicates that the individual would be prohibited from enjoying ‘the fruits’ of his fiscal earnings if the monetary tithe has not been deducted. The juxtaposition of monetary-tithing and private charity that we have seen in a number of places would imply that he perceived tithing as a voluntary pious act ‘that a person gives of his own accord’. It is safe to assume therefore that for Isaac, and other Ashkenazi medieval scholars as well, the monetary tithe was in some way related to the biblical agricultural tithe, in that it required setting aside a tenth, but was not to be considered a true tithe, not even of rabbinic origin.16 We have demonstrated from the various passages in Isaac Or Zarua’s work that by the end of the twelfth century or the beginning of the thirteenth century, at the very latest, the monetary-tithe was an established religious practice in Ashkenaz, and quite possibly existed centuries before that.17 It is not clear, however, to what extent it was prevalent in Jewish society at this time. Presumably, for many Jews, setting aside a tenth of one’s income was not easy, if not impossible. While there is no quantitative data at our disposal, certain indicators do point to limited observance of this pious practice in broader Jewish society of the time, even amongst those who had the means to do so. In the last passage cited from Isaac Or Zarua’s work we found him exhorting his fellow Jews to set aside tithes, claiming that ‘the more one gives of ma‘asrot [tithes] the more one’s wealth increases.’ This practical advice seems to be directed at Jews who feared they could not afford to donate to charity such a substantial percentage of their earnings. It is echoed in two additional sources, from thirteenth century pietistic literature, influenced by the German Pietists (Ḥasidei Ashkenaz).18 The first can be found in the first 16. As we shall see below both R. Meir of Rothenburg and his student R. Asher b. Jehiel are of this opinion. Moreover, I would argue that even the anonymous author of Sefer Ḥasidut and R. Tobias of Vienne (also found below) whose rhetoric would seem to indicate that the monetary tithe was more than a religious custom, in truth would not disagree with the position outlined here. 17. I do not have any concrete evidence to support such an assumption, as the communal ordinances that mention tithing associated with the early eleventh century scholar R. Gershom are in my opinion irrelevant to the religious custom of monetary tithing (see Appendix). It is however worth noting that Christians in Germany were tithing their earnings as early as from the Carolingians onwards. See James Brundage, ‘Tithes’, in Dictionary of the Middle Ages, ed. Joseph Strayer (New York, 1982–1989), vol. 12, 62–5, and Giles Constable, Monastic Tithes: from their Origins to the Twelfth Century (Cambridge, 1964), 31–56. 18. It is difficult to place the authors of these works in a precise locality, but they are most probably

t h e m e d i e va l m o n e t a r y- t i t h e i n a s h k e n a z | 2 0 9 152 sections of the Bologna edition of Sefer Ḥasidim. As Haym Soloveitchik has shown, this section is actually an independent work that is titled Sefer Ḥasidut.19 The second is from a work that is known today, and was known in medieval Catalonia, as Sefer ha-Yir’ah (The Book of the God-Fearing). In medieval Ashkenaz, Provence and Castile it was known as Ḥayyei Olam (Eternal Life).20 Both of these works were influenced by Sefer Ḥasidim, even if they do not reflect this movement’s ethos and religious ideology. They were composed sometime in the first half of the thirteenth century by people who were acquainted with Sefer Ḥasidim, living in either Germany or Northern France, but who felt the need to tone-down the extremes of the original work and make the broader directives of the movement palatable for the religiously motivated mainstream Jew.21 In Sefer Ḥasidut we find the following statement with regard to the monetary-tithe (for the sake of convenience, I have divided the section into three parts):22 III. ‘Bring ye the whole tithe into the storehouse etc … And try Me now herewith (Mal. 3:10)’. So important is tithing that here the Holy One, blessed be He, said ‘Try Me’ unlike in all other instances where it is forbidden to test Him, for it is written ‘Ye shall not try the Lord your God (Deut. 6:16)’. III. The tithe [alluded] to is the poor man’s tithe, to give to the poor a tenth of all one’s profit: whether [profit] from interest, from hiring out oneself, and from all that man profits, if he found a stolen item or a stolen item was brought to him he must set aside a tithe as the verse has written. For during that time [i.e. in the biblical era] Israel was not yet living among the nations of the world and lending at interest. from Germany or Northern France. See Haym Soloveitchik, ‘Piety, Pietism and German Pietism; Sefer Ḥasidim I and the influence of Ḥasidei Ashkenaz’, Jewish Quarterly Review 92 (2002), 466–7, 474–9, 483–4. 19. See Soloveitchik, ‘Piety’, 455–67 and n. 35. 20. See Benjamin Richler, ‘On the Manuscripts of Sefer ha-Yir’ah attributed to R. Jonah Gerondi’ (Hebrew), Alei Sefer 8 (1981), 51–9. On the distinction between Castile and Catalonia see Judah D. Galinsky, ‘The Four Turim and the Halakhic Literature of fourteenth Century Spain: Historical, Literary and Halakhic Aspects’ (Hebrew) (PhD diss., Bar-Ilan University, Ramat Gan, 1999), 151–2. 21. See Soloveitchik, ‘Piety’, 455–93 where he has written extensively about both these works and their relationship or lack of, to the German Pietists. In contrast see Ephraim Kanarfogel, Peering through the Lattices: Mystical, Magical, and Pietistic Dimensions in the Tosafist period (Detroit, 2000), 62–72. 22. Sefer Ḥasidim, ed. Reuven Margaliyot (Jerusalem, 1957), 148–9 [siman 144].

210 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s III. And woe onto those who withhold their tithe, for what will remain [of their profit] will only be the [amount of the] tithe [that they had withheld], as it is written ‘And everyman’s hallowed things shall be His’ (Num. 5:10). Even a cursory reading of the above passage reveals that the author was motivated by his audience’s indifference towards the tithing practice. In his opening argument (part I), based on the rabbinic teaching in the Babylonian Talmud, tractate Ta‘anit 9a, he emphasizes that tithing is unlike all other commandments where it is forbidden to test God. He then (part II) confronts directly what may have been the strongest argument against monetarytithing – the lack of an explicit biblical or rabbinic source. As noted above, tithing in the Bible and the Talmud refers to agricultural produce and does not relate at all to tithing from one’s monetary earnings. And finally (part III) he warns his audience ‘woe onto those who withhold their tithe’ for he will be left with income equal to a tithe that he had withheld’.23 Clearly, the author was not addressing people committed to tithing their earnings but rather those he hoped would do so in the future. Similarly, in Sefer ha-Yir’ah-Ḥayyei Olam the author resorts to rhetoric in order to convince his reading audience to implement the practice of monetary tithing:24 Do not fail to tithe properly. How [should this be done]? From any source of income, whether from teaching or writing or labour or findings or gifts or any other source, be it silver or gold – from all a tithe should be set aside. For this [obligation] is of utmost value, for even though the Creator forbade us to test him in other matters He allowed us [to test Him] with regard to ma‘aser.

Here too, I believe, the language is striking. The author opens with an admonition not to fail in tithing one’s income and concludes with an emphasis on the material benefit for the person who does tithe. The author clearly felt that he had to convince his audience of the advantage of tithing. It is noteworthy that in both these sources, Sefer Ḥasidut and Sefer haYir’ah-Ḥayyei Olam, the description of the monetary-tithe is similar to that of the Or Zarua. All three authors find in the Talmudic passage Tractate Ta‘anit 9a a source for the medieval practice of monetary tithing, although 23. It is worth noting that a parallel to this exhortation can be found in Tosafot Ta‘anit 9a (see below note 25) in the name of ‘hagadah’, i.e. a rabbinic aggadic source. 24. Sefer ha-Yir’ah, ed. Binyamin Zilber (Bne-Brak, 1988), 49 [siman 213].

t h e m e d i e va l m o n e t a r y- t i t h e i n a s h k e n a z | 211 the text does not explicitly relate to it.25 Moreover, tithing in these sources is presented as a personal religious duty, the responsibility of the individual, who sets aside the tithe and distributed it. The communal bureaucracy does not seem to have had a role neither in its collection nor in its distribution. In short, from all the above sources it emerges that until the middle of the thirteenth century, the monetary tithe seems to have been a well established practice but not necessarily one that was widely observed among Ashkenazi Jewry. It was considered a religious duty similar in nature to private charity, was not enforced by the community, and apparently practised primarily by the pious. Based on the various early German thirteenth-century sources, it is reasonable to maintain that the practice of monetary tithing was perceived as a minhag, a religious custom, albeit one partially grounded in Biblical and Talmudic sources. As noted above, although Isaac Or Zarua used the term commandment, ‘mitsvah le-adam le-‘aser’, which may imply a compulsory obligation, I would argue that for him and the other medieval Ashkenazi scholars, an age-old custom, especially one with roots in biblical practice, was sufficiently weighty to be referred to as a commandment.26 The only German medieval scholar to explicitly address the legal status of the monetary tithe was R. Meir of Rothenburg, the great rabbinic authority from the second half of the thirteenth century.27 R. Meir was consulted regarding the use of the monetary tithe for religious purposes other than donating to the poor. In his response, he addresses the broader legal issue as well:28 25. It is worth noting that the Tosafot on this Talmudic passage feel that it is necessary to cite a Sifre as a source for the practice (a source yet to be found among extent texts of the Sifre or by other medieval sources). Clearly, the authors of this Tosafot did not believe that the Talmudic text itself could serve as a source for monetary-tithing. It is also worth noting that no other medieval author, to the best of my knowledge, quotes the Sifre, cited in Tosafot, and this is despite their need to find a source for the practice. See for example Tashbets (Warsaw, 1902), 86 [siman 497], written by Samson b. Zadok, a student of R. Meir of Rothenburg, active around the same time as the editor of Tosafot Ta’anit. This author quotes the same teaching as found in Tosafot Ta‘anit but attributes its source to the generic ‘midrash’, an attribution that accurately reflects a source found in Pesikta (see above n. 15). 26. On the centrality of custom in medieval Ashkenazi society see Israel M. Ta-Shma, Early Franco-German Ritual and Custom (Hebrew) (Jerusalem, 1999), 13–105, especially 13–22. 27. For a survey of this central figure and his influence see E. Kanarfogel, ‘Preservation, Creativity, and Courage: the Life and Works of R. Meir of Rothenburg’, Jewish Book Annual 50 (1992), 249–59. 28. She’elot U-teshuvot R. Meir of Rotenburg, vol. 4 (Prague, 1608 and Budapest, 1895) siman 74; Isaac Zeev Cahana, R. Meir mi-Rotenburg – Tshuvot, Pesakim U-minhagim (Jerusalem, 1960), volume 2, 121 [siman 131]. An English summary can be found in Irving Agus, Rabbi Meir of Rothenburg (New York, 1947), volume 1, 256 [# 193].

21 2 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s And with regard to the monies of the tithe it would seem that since it became routine practice (lit. heḥziku) to give them to the poor, one is not allowed to use them for other religious purposes because it would appear to be tantamount to stealing from the poor. For even though it [i.e. the monetary-tithe] is not a Biblically mandated law but only a custom (minhag), still it has been taught …

At the end of his responsum R. Meir repeats this legal-historical claim: Since the monies of the monetary-tithe became property of the poor through the custom practised by all the Diaspora, one is, therefore, not allowed to change the purpose of the monies from the poor to some other religious obligation of which the poor have no need.

Clearly, according to R. Meir, the monetary-tithe was neither a biblical nor a rabbinic commandment but rather a religious custom, whose function was to aid the poor. Nevertheless, even according to R. Meir, there remained a strong linkage between the religious custom of monetary tithing and the agricultural tithe as we learn from one of his other responsa. When asked whether a person could use his tithe money in order to support his indigent father, he responded by referring to the laws of the agricultural tithes for the poor:29 The [legal] principles are the following: according to the position that [one is required to support the father] from the assets of the son, if the son has money he is not allowed to support [his father] from his [monetary] tithe for it is in place of the [agricultural] tithes for the poor, nor can he use other charities [that he has set aside] …   However according to the position that has been accepted as law, that [one supports the father] from the assets of the father, if the son has assets and still wishes to support from his [monetary] tithe we cannot protest but we do say ‘a curse unto him’.

R. Meir derived a law regarding the monetary tithe through a comparison with the agricultural tithe given to the poor. Note however that this decision was not limited to the monetary tithe but applied to private charity as well. It would seem that for most medieval Ashkenazi scholars, the monetary tithe was viewed as a religious custom, albeit one that was patterned after the biblical commandment of agricultural tithes. In many respects until late thirteenth century, the medieval tithe was perceived as a unique form of private charity for the poor. 29. She’elot U-teshuvot R. Meir of Rotenburg, vol. 4 (Prague and Budapest), siman 541 and its parallel Teshuvot Maimoniyot, Book of Damages (Nezikin) siman 15. Irving Agus, Rabbi Meir of Rothenburg vol. 1, 257–8 [#197], Cahana, R. Meir mi-Rotenburg, vol. 2, 118–19 [siman 127].

t h e m e d i e va l m o n e t a r y- t i t h e i n a s h k e n a z | 213 Monetary tithe as a communal ordinance The evidence in the rabbinic literature from late thirteenth century Germany relating to the monetary tithe indicates a certain shift in the practice of this custom, at least in some German communities. Our primary source of information for this period is the responsa of Rabbi Meir of Rothenburg. In this author’s writings and those of his students we witness the evolution of a traditional custom to a practice that is far more complex. We note two significant differences: the involvement of the community in legislating that a percentage of the monetary tithe had to be deposited in the communal charitable fund and the shift in the character of the tithe from a voluntary pious act to some sort of communal tax. In one responsum R. Meir was asked whether the donor was allowed to distribute his monetary tithe to his own children, whom he no longer was legally required to support. He answered that according to the law he was allowed to do so. R. Meir, however, added a very telling proviso to his decision, ‘as long as there is no ordinance that specifies that it [i.e. the tithe] must be given to the charitable fund [of the community]’.30 In other words, R. Meir was well aware that at the time there were communities who had legislated that the tithe money, or at least part of it, was to be deposited with the communal charitable fund. A second responsum of R. Meir sheds additional light on the nature of the new practice of tithing, one that combined the early pious custom with the new communal obligation:31 And that what you asked regarding Ruben who has one half of a tithe, the half which one does not have to deposit in the communal charitable fund, according to the common practice there, and that he is allowed to give to any pauper that he wishes.

In this particular community, there seems to have been a compromise between the older religious tithe custom and the newer practice, which was based on communal ordinance and communal control. Half of the tithe was to go to the communal charity while the other half was left to the discretion of the donor. As we shall see below such a model was already in existence in the Jewish communities of southern France sometime before it reached Germany. 30. She’elot U-teshuvot R. Meir of Rotenburg, vol. 4 (Prague and Budapest), siman 75; Cahana, R. Meir mi-Rotenburg, vol. 2, 121 [siman 132] and in Agus, Rabbi Meir of Rothenburg vol. 1, 256 [# 194]. 31. Teshuvot Maimoniyot, Book of Damages (Nezikin) siman 5; Cahana, R. Meir mi-Rotenburg, vol. 2, 120 [siman 130] and in Agus, Rabbi Meir of Rothenburg vol. 1, vol. 1, 257 [# 195].

21 4 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s A comparative study of the rabbinic literature of the first half of the thirteenth century and the responsa of R. Meir authored in the second half reveals a gradual change in the practice of monetary tithing. Whereas at the beginning of the century, and probably for many years before that, monetary tithing was a purely voluntary religious duty, a pious custom, towards the second half of the century it had begun to turn into a communal obligation as well. Tithing or part of it evolved into an internal tax in order to fund charity for the poor and possibly other religious needs. Indeed it is a time when communal ordinances and communal enforcement began to play a significant role in transforming the practice of the pious into a requirement that obligated the entire community. This was a gradual process during which certain communities continued to practice the custom of tithing in its traditional way.32 This reconstruction of the evolving nature of the monetary tithe is reflected in a somewhat unexpected source; namely a family ordinance enacted during the year 1314 in Toledo, Castile and then reenacted in the year 1345. The original ordinance was written by the famous Ashkenazi sage, Rabbi Asher b. Jehiel [=Rosh], student of Rabbi Meir and who served as his replacement as primary rabbinic authority of Germany following R. Meir’s imprisonment by Rudolph I in the year 1286. The ordinance was reenacted by Rosh’s son, Rabbi Judah, towards the end of his life and it was he who preserved it for posterity by appending it to his ethical will.33 The information garnered in Judah’s preface to his father’s ordinance and the ordinance itself provide valuable historical information regarding tithing in late thirteenth century Germany. The following is an excerpt from Judah’s preface:34 My revered father of blessed memory legislated (tiken) in his city in Germany that every member of the community should pay a tithe of his total income, and in Toledo he instructed that he and his children should do likewise. 32. This can be deduced from the decision of Samson b. Zadok who writes in his Tashbets, 71 [siman 405]: ‘If a person pledged money to charity he may give it even to his relatives, and all of his tithe he may give to his relatives’. It would seem that the author did not take into account that part of the tithe would end up in the communal coffers. See as well below the legal decision of R. Isaac of Oppenheim. 33. Judah’s will has recently been republished in She’elot U-teshuvot Zikhron Yehudah le-Rabenu Yehudah ben ha-Rosh, ed. Avraham Y. Ḥavatselet (Jerusalem, 2005), 171–83. Most of it can be found in English translation in Israel Abrahams, Jewish Ethical Wills (Philadelphia, 1927), volume 2, 163–200. In the passages from Judah’s will cited below I have taken the liberty to change Abraham’s translation when I felt it was warranted. 34. Zikhron Yehudah, 180; Abrahams, Jewish Ethical Wills, 192.

t h e m e d i e va l m o n e t a r y- t i t h e i n a s h k e n a z | 215 This statement clearly indicates that Rosh legislated in his city, most probably Mainz,35 that all members were obligated to set aside a tithe. Furthermore we may even be able to calculate the percentage of the tithe that was enforced by the community based on Rosh’s subsequent family ordinance, which seems to have been modeled upon the ordinance of the city, to quote:36 Therefore, we have continued in the footsteps of our fathers and have taken upon ourselves the obligation to set aside a tenth of all our profits in business, interest and all other trading. Three quarters of this tithe we will deposit in a chest controlled by two treasurers who will authorize grants to any who need to draw from the fund.

It is possible that in Rosh’s community in Germany as well that the ratio was that three quarters of the tithe would be deposited with the communal charitable fund and one quarter would be left to the discretion of the donor. A second piece of information conveyed to us in Rosh’s family ordinance relates to the transition in the tithe practice during the latter part of the thirteenth century from ancient custom to communal obligation. Rosh writes at the beginning of the ordinance:37 Hear my son the instruction of your father and do not forsake the teaching of your mother (Proverbs 1:8). Seeing that in the country from which we migrated [i.e. Germany] our fathers and our father’s father were accustomed to set aside for Heaven as charity, for the sake of mitsvot, one part in ten of all business profits, therefore we have continued in the footsteps of our fathers and have taken upon ourselves the obligation to set aside a tenth of all our profits in business, interest and all other trading.

From a venerable custom of tithing whose authority comes from verses such as ‘Hear my son the instruction of your father’ 38 we, in later times, hear of certain communities who obligate their members to donate to the communal charity through the enactment of specific ordinances. The evidence we found in the tithe document of Rosh and in his son’s preface to that document, positively attest to the shift we described above, from a pious custom for 35. See Alfred Freimann, ‘Ascher ben Jechiel, sein Leben und Wirken’, Jahrbuch der JüdischLiteraischen Gesellschaft XII (1918), 248–9 translated into Hebrew as Rosh and his Descendents (Jerusalem, 1986), 25 and Emanuel, Fragments of the Tablets, 239, n. 77. 36. Zikhron Yehudah, 181; Abrahams, Jewish Ethical Wills, 193. 37. Ibid. 38. See for example Talmud Bavli, Pesa ḥ im 50b.

216 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s the sake of the poor to an internal communal tax for charity and other religious purposes. It is very likely that this shift in the tithe practice reflected a fundamental communal attempt, in the German cities, to transform the charity collection into an internal tax, levied upon all able members of the community. Indeed, it is no coincidence that the evidence available to us of a well organized communal charity in the form of an internal tax dates back to the late thirteenth century. In contrast, the rabbinic sources before this time indicate that the community’s needs were funded through the largesse of individuals and through periodic communal appeals.39 The latter part of thirteenth century was a period of transition in the development of the monetary tithe. In some communities, individuals continued to practice the custom of tithing as their forefathers had, whereas in other locales the tithe custom was co-opted as part of a new public policy of organized charitable collection. One can almost see this change occurring from a comment that R. Meir ha-Kohen appended to a responsum of his teacher R. Meir of Rothenburg. R. Meir was asked whether a community could compel an individual to donate his tithe money to the charity earmarked for the special needs of the wayfaring poor.40 R. Meir argued that there is no Talmudic source that sanctions obligating the individual to fund the needs of the non-permanent poor beyond their basic needs, which were already supplied by the institutions of kuppa and tamḥuy.41 He ends his responsum with the following exception to his decision:42 If the residents of the city agree amongst themselves [to donate their tithe money], in order to eliminate the complaints of the wayfarers [then they may]. 39. See She’elot U-teshuvot R. Meir of Rotenburg, vol. 4 (Prague and Budapest), siman 918 and Simcha Emanuel, ‘Responsa of German Sages on the Laws of Charity’ (Hebrew), Ha-Mayan 41 (1991), 15–21 [responsum #5]. See as well the recent dissertation of Yehuda Altshuler, ‘The Development and Significance of Taxation in the Jewish Communities of Ashkenaz, Between the Beginning of Settlement and the Black Death’ (Hebrew) Ph.D. Bar Ilan University (Ramat-Gan, 2009), 93–5. See as well Judah Galinsky, ‘Public Charity in Medieval Germany – a Preliminary Investigation’ in Toward a Renewed Ethic of Jewish Philanthropy, ed. Yossi Prager (New York 2010), 79–92. I am now more convinced that there existed some kind of periodic collection of funds for charity and other religious needs among the Jewish communities in medieval Germany. 40. We do not have the question but from his response it would seem that this was the question posed. 41. Teshuvot Maimoniyot, Book of Acquisitions (Kinyan), siman 28 and in Agus, Rabbi Meir of Rothenburg vol. 1, 256 [# 192]. 42. Ibid.

t h e m e d i e va l m o n e t a r y- t i t h e i n a s h k e n a z | 217 However [even in such a situation] should there be [an individual] amongst them who does not want to [donate] but rather wishes to give his tithe [money] to his poor relatives, he is allowed to do so.

It would seem that when R. Meir wrote this responsum, the practice of converting some or even all of one’s tithe money into a communal obligation based upon a communal ordinance binding all members of the community was not yet commonplace.43 He therefore addresses the issue mainly from the perspective of Talmudic law without considering all the communal ramifications of his decision. In contrast, when his student R. Meir ha-Kohen included this responsum in his collection of responsa, appended to the Maimonidean Code, he added the following line, ‘However, if the majority agreed [to donate to the communal cause] then individuals may not refuse [to participate], see above siman 26 and on this page.’ I would argue that R. Meir ha-Kohen, who was active during the latter years of the thirteenth century, was already reacting to a new reality, one of communal decisions and communal ordinances, concerning the monetary-tithe. He therefore had to supply a legal rationale for a position that seemed to contradict his teacher’s decision.

Precedent from communities in the southern part of France A closer look at the medieval responsa literature may help trace the original practitioners of the mixed model of monetary tithing. There are two responsa that point to the southern areas of France44 where this model was in existence before it was in Germany.45 The first is a responsum of Rabbi Tuvya or Tobias of Vienne, part of the Dauphiné, what is today in south-eastern France,46 43. Additional evidence for this hypothesis is the summary of this decision by his student Samson, see above n. 32. 44. As will be made clear below I am not referring to what is culturally considered to be Jewish Southern France, or larger ‘Provence’ which is roughly equal to the Midi, but rather simply to its geographic location. 45. The region of Dauphiné, to the best of my knowledge, is not perceived as being culturally part of the Jewish ‘Southern France’; however, it was very much in the southern part of the country. It was bounded by the Rhône and Savoie on the west and north and by Provence on the south. And although the southern part of Dauphiné was considered to be part of the Midi, Vienne was in the north. On Jewish culture in this area see Susan Einbinder, ‘The Jewish Martyrs of Grenoble: Martyrdom and Biography’, Studies in Medieval and Renaissance History 3 (2006), 1–24, especially 1–4. Finally, it is worth noting that although at this time Dauphiné was under the direct rule of the Counts of Albon it was part of the Holy Roman Empire. 46. On this Tosafist see E.E. Urbach, The Tosafists, 486–92 and E. Kanarfogel, ‘Halakha and Metziut

218 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s who was a legal authority a generation before R. Meir of Rothenburg. The second is from a R. Joseph Ḥayim b. Moshe from Mussidan in Aquitaine, south-western France, whom we can locate at a later date in the southernmost part of Alsace, in the area Montbéliard that was politically aligned, as was the Dauphiné, with the Holy Roman Empire.47 Somewhat later, this area became part of the region known as Franche-Comté. It is possible that his relocation from Aquitaine to the area of Montbéliard was caused by the expulsion of the Jews from English controlled lands during the years close to 1290.48 This legal authority was active somewhat after the death of R. Meir of Rothenburg, in the late thirteenth century and first half of the fourteenth. The question addressed to R. Tobias involved a certain Ezekiel who was hired, for a set fee, to lend for profit money belonging to Abraham.49 Ezekiel did so and after receiving the interest on the loan asked Rabbi Tobias whether he was obligated to tithe the profit. In such a case, should he deposit the tithe in the treasury house [beit ha-otsar] of his own city or should he forward it to Abraham in order that he donate it in his own city? 50 R. Tobias’ response was straightforward and did not leave much room for doubt: My brother R. Ezekiel, know that you must forward to master Abraham b. Josi the monetary-tithe [of the money] that you had lent out for him for a fee [lit. tovat hana’ah] because he is obligated by an oath to bring the tithe to the treasury in his city since the profit is his. But you are not obligated by oath to give a tithe since you do not have any part of the profit. Because with regard to the agricultural tithe it states that the tithe of your cereal, the increase of thy seed. And in the Yerushalmi the monetary-tithe is derived [from the verse] ‘Honour the LORD with thy resources, and with the first fruits of all thine produce (Prov. 3:9)’. (Realia) in Medieval Ashkenaz: Surveying the Parameters and Defining the Limits’, Jewish Law Annual 14 (2003), 216–24 and his recent ‘R. Tobia de Vienne et R. Yehiel de Paris: La créativité des Tossafistes dans une période d’incertitude’, Les Cahiers du judaïsme 31 (2011), 4–17, especially 5–9. 47. See Israel Levi, ‘Un recueil de consultations inédites de rabbins de la France méridionale’, REJ 43 (1901), 237–42 and Emanuel, ‘Responsa of German Sages’, 19, n. 30. I thank Pinchas Roth for drawing my attention to Levi’s important study. 48. On the expulsion of the Jews from English controlled lands in France see William C. Jordan, The French Monarchy and the Jews: from Philip Augustus to the last Capetians (Philadelphia, 1989), 179–85. I thank Susan Einbinder for suggesting the expulsion of the Jews from lands controlled by England as a possible motive for Joseph’s migration. 49. Mordechai Ha-shalem Masekhet Bava Kamma, ed. Avraham Halperin (Jerusalem, 1992), 238 [siman 192]. 50. The question was raised as follows: ‘R. Tuvya [Tobias] was asked regarding a person who had in his possession someone’s money that he lent out for him – should he set aside the monetary-tithe [of the interest] [and present it in his city] or should he give it to the owner of the money [and allow him to present it in his city]?’

t h e m e d i e va l m o n e t a r y- t i t h e i n a s h k e n a z | 219 R. Tobias’ language reflects a practice rooted in a communal ordinance, as evinced by the mentions of an oath and the requirement to deposit the tithe in the treasury of the city. Nonetheless, the religious character of the tithe was still present as can be seen from his citation of the Talmud Yerushalmi and the equation drawn between the monetary-tithe and the biblical agricultural one.51 It is noteworthy that in this particular source, the entire tithe money was to be deposited in the communal charity fund and not only half or three quarters of it. In addition, there are indications in the responsum that point to an earlier time when this religious-communal practice was still evolving, as R. Tobias adds: And even if the ordinance in your place of residence preceded that of his I would [still] instruct you to give him [the tithe] in order that he bring it to the treasury in his city. Unless it was stated [explicitly] in the ordinances [of his city] that the tithe should be set aside from all that was earned whether it reaches them or goes to others.

This passage seems to indicate that at the time, in the mid thirteenth century, communal ordinances relating to tithing were beginning to be enacted, prompting R. Tobias to emphasize that it did not matter whether the enactment of the ordinance in Ezekiel’s place of residence preceded that of Abraham’s. In R. Tobias opinion, Ezekiel still had to forward the tithe to Abraham to deposit in his city. This responsum was preserved in the late thirteenth century legal compilation known as the Mordechai, written by R. Meir of Rothenburg’s student, R. Mordechai b. Hillel. The dating of this source is crucial since it precedes all of the German sources that we described above. The second responsum, authored by R. Joseph Ḥayim, a well known legal authority at the beginning of the fourteenth century, was published only recently by Simcha Emanuel from a collection of responsa written mostly by German Rabbis.52 The question was posed to him, most probably from 51. The reference to the Talmud Yerushalmi is problematic as there is no explicit reference to monetary tithing in the extant version of the Talmud. However, the traditional approach, followed by various legal commentators was to direct attention to Yerushalmi Peah (1:1 15b) [= The Jerusalem Talmud, translation and commentary by Heinrich W. Guggenheimer, Berlin and New York 2000, vol 19, 16–17]. See Rovner, Please help me tithe, 18 and Albert, Ma‘sar Kesafim, 14–17. I will note that the subject of the passage is not tithing but rather charity and the percentages that emerge from the source are 20%, 3%, 2% but not 10%. I intend to return to this topic in the near future. 52. One can deduce that Joseph was an important legal authority at this time from the fact that

220 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es Germany, at a time when he was residing in the area of Montbéliard.53 The question: 54 Regarding that which you asked about the ‘poor-man tithe’ (ma‘sar ani) [i.e. monetary-tithe], that which is called kabla,55 how is it used and distributed?

In the following lines R. Joseph clearly distinguished between the communal and the private elements that were the standard in the monetary-tithe practised in his previous place of residence: Half should be given to the poor of the world – who are not his relatives and half he may retain and distribute to his poor relatives. And such was the practice in France, half of the ma‘aser he brought to the [communal] treasury house and half he would retain to distribute to his poor relatives and other religious functionaries (shar ‘osei mitsvah), and corroboration for this custom is found in tractate Peah…56

Joseph is asked to clarify the law of tithing and his response refers to the established practice he had known from Aquitaine or from other areas in France before the expulsion of 1306. This is further proof that in other areas, such as in Germany, the tithe practice was still evolving at this time. This reality may explain why later in his responsum Joseph formulated a variation of the French practice, for those locales where a communal ordinance or the necessary communal institutions were not in existence: In a city that has a [communal] treasury he should bring half of the tithe to the treasury house, however in a city that lacks a treasury he should give it to the poor who are not his relatives such as transients (orḥim) or poor students and half he should retain for his relatives. he was the head of the rabbinic court in the area of Montbéliard and from his title ‘ha-rav ha-gadol’ the grand Rabbi. See Levi, ‘Un recueil de consultations’, 238 and Emanuel, ‘Responsa of German Sages’, 19, n. 30. 53. On the contacts between the Jews of Montbéliard and the scholars of Germany see Levi, ‘Un recueil de consultations’, 240–1. Since his responsum is found in a responsa collection of German Rabbis it is plausible that the question was sent from there. I thank Simcha Emanuel for clarifying this point to me. 54. Emanuel, ‘Responsa of German Sages’, 19 [responsum 4]. 55. The etymology of the phrase ‘kabla’ requires clarification, however, from the various medieval Jewish sources from twelfth century Germany until late thirteenth century France, its meaning seems clear – it refers to the communal charity collection. I intend to return to clarifying this phrase in the future. 56. This is the same law and the same source mentioned by Or Zarua (see above n. 10). One possible explanation is that R. Joseph was influenced by this work, or alternatively and in my opinion more plausible, that since it was the norm in his part of France to divide the maʻaser into two equal parts, we may assume that the rationale and source from Peah was indeed well known to all, independently of R. Isaac’s work.

t h e m e d i e va l m o n e t a r y- t i t h e i n a s h k e n a z | 2 21 These two sources may reveal that the shift in the practice of the monetary tithe from religious custom to communal obligation in the more southern communities of France, such as in the area of Vienne and Aquitaine predate that shift in the communities in Germany and may have been the model for its development.57 Accordingly it is not surprising that it is from one of the southern communities, Reillanne in south-eastern France, that we have a very detailed communal ordinance from 1313 stipulating the obligation to give half of one’s tithe to the communal fund.58 Each member has to swear that he has donated according to his means. A member who refuses to donate is to be punished by being distanced from the members of the community, a kind of ḥerem, ban. Also mentioned are the existence of a specific charity chest, names of administrators, as well the various needs and causes that may be funded by the communal tithe. The tithe document from Reillanne gives the impression of being a well thought-out document which even includes a clause to resolve difference of opinions that may arise in interpreting the ordinance. In such eventualities the final word was given to the supreme rabbinic authority of the area, R. Isaac ha-Cohen of Manosque.59 It is likely that the ordinance of Reillanne was one of many such ordinances that were enacted in the southern part of France during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, similar to what we found in R. Tobias responsum. Fortuitously it was the only one to survive the Middle Ages.60 In short: I would argue that the overall evidence suggests that the direction of influence of this development begins with communities in southern areas of France and moves to the communities in Germany. However, since the body of evidence is quite meagre it remains possible that this particular

57. With regard to Northern France we lack sufficient information to even speculate about the practice in that area. 58. The ordinance was published by Simon Schwarzfuchs, ‘An Ordinance from 1313’ (Hebrew), Bar-Ian 4–5 (1967), 209–19. The identification of the city as Reillanne in southern France was made by Joseph Shatzmiller, ‘Provençal Ordinances of 1313’ (Hebrew)’, Kiryat Sefer 50 (1975), 663–7. 59. On this important medieval Rabbi see Joseph Shatzmiller, ‘Rabbi Isaac ha-Cohen of Manosque and his son Rabbi Peretz: the Rabbinate and its Professionalization in the Fourteenth Century’, in Jewish History; Essays in Honour of Chimen Abramsky, ed. Ada Rapoport-Albert and Steven J. Zipperstein (London, 1988), 61–83. 60. See Shatzmiller, ‘Provençal Ordinances’, 663 on the uniqueness of its survival.

222 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es development in the tithe practice moves in the opposite direction, from Germany to Southern France.

Monetary tithe as a rabbinic commandment Thus far we have presented evidence that during the late thirteenth century there was a shift in the practice of the monetary tithe in some German communities from a pious custom to one that functioned as an internal tax. We suggested that this development was part of a broader attempt at coordinating communal charity in the Jewish communities of the time. It is difficult however to ascertain whether this development remained a permanent feature of Jewish communal policy in Germany. Rabbinic literature of the late fourteenth century and fifteenth century, from R. Jacob Moellin (Maharil) onwards,61 once again relates to the monetary-tithe almost exclusively as a religious practice and not as a communal obligation62 and it reflects a development in the perception of monetary tithing at the time. From Maharil onwards we can no longer assume that the monetary-tithe was perceived as an ancient pious custom as R. Meir of Rothenburg and his student Rosh had assumed. This highly influential legal authority and teacher of Talmud in Mainz between the years 1390 and 1427 63 spread the notion of monetary tithe as the fulfillment of a Talmudic obligation to tithe one’s earnings, a bonafide mitsvah, mandated by the Sages of the Talmud as a substitute for agricultural tithes. This perception came to be the prevailing understanding of ma‘sar kesafim in many Jewish communities in Germany. A close reading of R. Jacob Moellin’s responsa relating to monetary tithing reveals a consistent position regarding its legal status. According to Maharil 61. Much has been written about the distinction between Ashkenazi Jewry up until the end of the thirteenth century and the one we encounter from late fourteenth century onwards. See for example Israel J. Yuval, ‘“Rishonim” and “Aharonim”, Antiqui et Moderni (Periodization and Self-Awareness in Ashkenaz)’ (Hebrew), Zion 57 (1992), 369–94 and Yedidya A. Dinari, The Rabbis of Germany and Austria at the close of the Middle Ages (Hebrew) (Jerusalem, 1984), especially 7–34. 62. A perusal of the main responsa collections and custom literature from the late fourteenth and fifteenth centuries did not uncover much evidence for the use of the tithe as an instrument for collecting communal charity. The only relevant source that I found was in the responsa of R. Moshe Mintz (She’elot U-teshuvot Maharam Mintz, Yonatan S. Domb edition, Jerusalem, 1991), 244–5 [siman 60], and it is very unclear what one can derive from this lone reference. 63. On Maharil see Encyclopedia Judaica second edition (Detroit, 2007), vol. 14, 414. On his impact upon the customs of the Jews of Germany see Sidney Steiman, Custom and Survival: A Study of the Life and Work of Rabbi Jacob Molin (Moellin) known as the Maharil (c.1360–1427), and his Influence in Establishing the Ashkenazic Minhag (Customs of German Jewry) (New York,1963).

t h e m e d i e va l m o n e t a r y- t i t h e i n a s h k e n a z | 2 23 it was mandatory for every Jew to tithe his earnings. A person who did not tithe his monetary ‘fruits’ was eating ‘rabbinic tevel’, untithed produce. For him the monetary tithe belonged to God, well before its owner designated it as such. He seems to imply that the biblical verse regarding agricultural tithe ‘they are holy unto the Lord’ (Leviticus 27, 30) should apply to the monetary tithe as well. R. Jacob Moellin does not spell out his position as coherently as I have presented it above, nevertheless, if one combines his various comments scattered throughout his responsa that is the message that emerges. In one responsum he writes of ‘the rabbinic monetary tithe’ (ma‘sar kesafim derabanan) that all are obligated to give by religious law (mi-dina).64 In another, he praises women who give monetary tithe, even without the assent of their husbands, because in doing so they save their husbands from ‘eating [produce] that has not been tithed (davar she-eino me‘usar)’.65 In a responsum discussing the obligation of orphans to tithe he comments that with regard to monetary tithe, in contrast to the agricultural tithe of wheat, all earnings are to be considered as food ready to be eaten (and not to be stored) and therefore tithe must be taken from them. Maharil rules that the orphan’s guardian must tithe all their earnings in order that ‘they should not be fed rabbinic untithed produce (tevel derabanan)’.66 Finally, he rules that one may not utilize the monetary tithe to fulfill the special commandment of giving gifts to the poor on Purim. He argues that one may fulfill a religious obligation from what belongs to the owner entirely and not from money already belonging to God, or in his language ‘it must come from what is not sanctified’ (min ha-ḥullin).67 R. Jacob Moellin’s legal positions and the language he chose to use imply that he perceived the monetary-tithe as a true tithe, akin to the biblical model of agricultural tithe, and not merely as a custom that encouraged charity, whether of the private or public kind. He was of the opinion that this tithe was established by the Talmudic sages and therefore legally obligated all Jews. Given that I have not found this consistent position in the writings 64. See She’elot U-teshuvot Maharil Ha-hadashot, ed. Yitzchok Satz (Jerusalem, 1977), 202 [siman 152]. 65. Ibid, 131–2 [siman 109]. 66. Ibid, 130 [siman 108]. 67. See She’elot U-teshuvot Maharil, 59 [siman 56].

224 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es of rabbinic scholars prior to Maharil it is most probable that this position gained currency through him.68 An intriguing piece of evidence for this hypothesis comes from a query posed to R. Jacob Moellin by his brother Gumprecht, who was an educated person but not a legal authority like his famed brother.69 The question dealt with the established practice of giving charity on ‘account’ of future tithe money that would accumulate during the course of the year, according to one’s earnings. Gumprecht felt that if one did not inform the recipients of the tithe (i.e. the poor) in advance then the practice contradicted Talmudic law taught with regard to agricultural tithes and other gifts.70 In attempting to resolve his own question Gumprecht at first suggests a distinction between agricultural tithes and monetary tithes ‘since the latter is only a custom and therefore there is no need to stipulate’. He however immediately counters that such a distinction was not valid: since there is biblical support [for the custom], ‘aser ta‘aser – thou shalt truly tithe (Deuteronomy 14:22) this teaches us to include all kinds of tithe and that is the reason we tithe everything [i.e. even non-agricultural earnings].71

Judging from Gumprecht’s inner dialogue it appears that the exact status of the monetary tithe was still in question: was it merely a custom or was it a bonafide Talmudic extension of the biblical agricultural tithes. This may have been the case during Maharil’s lifetime but as a result of his writings, it is possible to discern a noticeable change of perception. In this context, the writings of R. Isaac of Oppenheim come to mind as a possible influence on Maharil’s understanding and formulation of the tithe. Not much is known about R. Isaac today besides the fact that he lived during the first half of the fourteenth century and was a recognized legal authority whose decisions were considered authoritative by his contemporaries and those who lived immediately after him.72 One of his surviving legal decisions relates to a question addressed to R. Meir of Rothenburg that we 68. Although as we shall see below one can find a precedent in a legal decision of R. Isaac of Oppenheim. This scholar however was far less influential then Maharil on the development of German-Jewish custom. 69. On this scholar see Israel J. Yuval, Scholars in their Time: the Religious Leadership of German Jewry in the Late Middle Ages (Hebrew) (Jerusalem, 1988), 220–2. 70. She’elot U-teshuvot Maharil, 52–3 [siman 54]. 71. Ibid. 72. On this scholar see Yisrael M. Peles, ‘Responsa and Rulings of Rabbi Yitzhak Oppenheim’ (Hebrew), Tzfunot 16 (1992), 9–13. I have located the time of his activity as the first half of the

t h e m e d i e va l m o n e t a r y- t i t h e i n a s h k e n a z | 2 25 cited above, about utilizing the monetary tithe to support one’s parents. In R. Isaac of Oppenheim opinion, despite the fact that he viewed the monetary tithe as a bonafide rabbinic commandment he still was of the opinion that it was permissible. He writes the following:73 The monetary tithe is of rabbinic origin [i.e. Talmudic], as they most probably established (tiknu) it corresponding to the ‘first tithe (ma‘sar rishon)’ that is observed every year. And it is based on this [i.e. the distinction between biblical and rabbinic tithe] that we rely and allow a person to feed his father with the tithe although regarding the biblical tithe we say that one who feeds his father tithe is to be cursed.

The point of R. Isaac’s decision was to allow the use of the monetary tithe to support one’s parents and in this he differed somewhat with the position taken by R. Meir of Rotenberg mentioned above. For our purpose, however, what emerges from his decision is the notion that he perceived the monetary tithe as a Talmudic obligation, a rabbinic commandment that extended the biblical agricultural tithe to include a monetary one as well. R. Isaac’s decision to permit the use of the monetary tithe in support of one’s parents was known to Maharil and he quotes it approvingly in two of his responsa.74 One may suggest that Isaac of Oppenheim’s understanding of the monetary tithe as a religious obligation of rabbinic origin played a role in assisting R. Jacob Moellin to conceptualize his own position regarding the legal status of the monetary tithe.75 It is therefore possible that the innovative position on tithing of these two scholars, active in the Rhineland during the fourteenth century, may indicate that the practice of monetary-tithing in their area was no longer merely a custom of the pious few but had spread to broader segments of society. It is hard to imagine scholars publicly advancing such a radical new perception of tithing while the practice remained limited to pious individuals. Although I do not have the evidence to prove this I would still suggest that it was only after tithing had become commonplace enough in broader society that

fourteenth century after consulting with Simcha Emanuel who has recently researched this scholar and his legal decisions. 73. Peles, ‘Responsa and Rulings’, 12 [siman 8]. 74. See She’elot U-teshuvot Maharil, 54 [siman 54] and 59 [siman 56]. 75. I intend to devote a separate study to explain how and why this position evolved only during the fourteenth century.

226 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es Maharil could entertain espousing a position that tithing was an actual commandment that obligated all. Interestingly, in the area of ‘Austria’ (i.e. Nuremburg and eastward),76 in contrast to the area of the ‘Rhineland’ (i.e. Western Germany as far as Nuremburg), it would seem that even during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries tithing remained simply a custom of the pious. This emerges from a report found in the fifteenth century collection of laws and customs of R. Israel Isserlein known as Leket Yosher. His student Joseph quotes his teacher as saying:77 There is no custom in ‘Austria’ to tithe (letein ma‘aser) from interest received or from other income (shar devarim). Only unique individuals who are pious (miyuḥadim she-heim ḥasidim) give a tenth immediately upon receiving any kind of profit (revaḥ mi-kol davar).

With regard to the practice of tithing, as with many other customs, the ‘Rhineland’ and ‘Austria’ diverged.78 As shown above, in contrast to Maharil’s understanding of tithing as a commandment obligating all, according to R. Isserlein it was merely a custom practised by the pious.79

76. On these distinct areas and their customs see Yitschak (Eric) Zimmer, Society and its Customs: Studies in the History and Metamorphosis of Jewish Customs (Hebrew) (Jerusalem, 1996), 216–19 and Shlomo Spitzer, ‘The Custom of the People of Austria (Bnei Austreikh): Its Origin and Development during the Middle Ages’ (Hebrew), Sini 87 (1980), 55–64. I would like to thank Yisrael Peles for discussing with me various topics related to the divide between ‘Austria’ and the ‘Rhineland’. 77. Joseph b. Moses, Leket Yosher, ed. Jacob Freimann (Berlin, 1903–1904), part 2 (Yorah Deah), 76. 78. I believe that this is what R. Isserlein was trying to convey to his student Joseph who hailed from the ‘Rhineland’. This report reinforces what we noted above, i.e., that during the fifteenth century the exact legal status of the monetary tithe was still undefined as seen in Maharil’s brother Gumprecht’s opinion that tithing ‘is only a custom’. The above cited text from Leket Yosher, however, can be understood not as relating to the lack of performance amongst the general Jewish population in ‘Austria’ but rather as a comment on the exact way that tithing was practised. R. Isserlein may be simply saying that most Jews only tithed the initial money that they received or earned (the principal) but did not tithe their subsequent earnings. In contrast the pious tithed all their subsequent earnings as well. Such a reading is plausible, see Edward Fram, My dear Daughter: Rabbi Benjamin Slonik and the Education of Jewish Women in Sixteenth-Century Poland (Cincinnati, 2007), 170 [siman 10], where R. Slonik emphasizes the need to tithe all subsequent earning as well. Nevertheless I believe that the reading I adopted is a somewhat more straightforward reading of the Leket Yosher. I would like to thank Israel Yuval, Ted Fram and my teacher Shlomo Z. Havlin for assisting me with this text. 79. Within this context it is interesting to note the argument between two legal scholars of late sixteenth and early seventeenth century Poland, R. Joel Sirkus, author of Bayit Hadash (Ba’h) and his son-in-law R. David ha-Levi, author of Turi Zahav (‘Taz’). R. Joel’s position is the classic medieval one and that was preserved in the custom of ‘Austria’ during the fifteenth century. In contrast, R. David ha-Levi seems to have adopted the position of Maharil and R. Isaac of Oppenheim. See the discussion in Taz Shulhan Arukh,Yoreh Deah 331:32.

t h e m e d i e va l m o n e t a r y- t i t h e i n a s h k e n a z | 2 2 7 At this juncture I would like to hypothesize regarding the evolution of the tithing practice described above: from pious custom to communal ordinance to rabbinic commandment. I suggest relating this particular phenomenon, the monetary-tithe, to the broader context of development of communal institutions in Medieval Ashkenaz and their decline. It has been often argued that in contrast to the twelfth and thirteenth centuries when the Jewish communities in France and Germany strengthened their internal communal organization,80 during the latter half of the fourteenth century and the fifteenth century, the communal structures in Germany fell into disarray and had to be restructured. This decline of the communal institutions was caused by the catastrophic effects of the Black Death and various other calamities.81 As part of this broader thesis Eric Zimmer has described the transition from a ‘communal-authority’ based system, popular during the High Middle-Ages, to one built upon a teacher-student relationship which he describes as a ‘teacher-authority’ system, prevalent during the late fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. In the earlier model, the source of authority of communal activity stemmed from the members of the community themselves, whereas in the later one it was built upon the special authority that a Talmudic master held over his students.82 After the traditional medieval ‘secular’ communal institutions83 were thrown into disarray, the effort to rebuild them is predicated upon religious Talmudic law. 80. Y. Handelsman, ‘Changes in the Leadership of the Jewish communities in Germany during the Middle Ages from the Eleventh to the Fifteenth Century’, PhD Hebrew University, 1980. It is in this light that one can understand the intensified legal discussions regarding communal organization amongst halakhists of this time, see Ephraim Kanarfogel, ‘Unanimity, Majority, and Communal Government in Ashkenaz During the High Middle Ages: A Reassessment’, Proceedings – American Academy for Jewish Research, 58 (1992), 79–106; ‘The Development and Diffusion of Unanimous Agreement in Medieval Ashkenaz’ in Studies in Medieval Jewish History and Literature, vol. III, edited by Isadore Twersky and Jay M. Harris (Cambridge, MA, 2000), 21–44 and recently his ‘The Appointment of Hazzanim in Medieval Ashkenaz: Communal Policy and Individual Religious Prerogatives’ in Spiritual Authority; Struggles over Cultural Power in Jewish Thought, edited by Howard Kreisel, Boaz Huss, Uri Ehrlich (Beer Sheva, 2009), 5–31. 81. See Handelsman, ‘Changes’, especially 304–9 and 312–13 and E. Zimmer, Harmony and Discord: an Analysis of the Decline of Jewish Self-government in fifteenth Century Central Europe (New York, 1970), 8–9 and 104–7. See as well I. Yuval, ‘“Rishonim” and “Aharonim”’ (above, n. 61). 82. Zimmer, Harmony and Discord, 104–10 and see as well Handelsman, ‘Changes’, 288–313. 83. I do not wish to argue that the source of the ‘communal-authority’ model was not based on Jewish law but rather to highlight that the mandate to govern was perceived as an expression of communal will. On the Talmudic sources for such a model see A. Grossman, ‘The Attitude of the Early Scholars of Ashkenaz towards the Authority of the “kahal”’ (Hebrew), Shenaton ha-Mishpat ha-Ivri 2 (1975), 175–99; H. Soloveitchik, The Uses of Responsa as Historical Source (Hebrew) (Jerusalem, 1990), 66–86 and Kanarfogel, ‘Unanimity’.

228 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es I would suggest viewing the developments in the practice of the monetarytithe in a similar light. Originally the tithe was a pious custom. However, with the growth and development of the Jewish community and its institutions, there was a move to appropriate the custom and to make it part of public policy, as an internal tax for the sake of the poor. Finally, with the disintegration of the communal institutions, the rabbinic leadership realized that the only way to encourage the practice of tithing for the sake of the poor was to package it as a true religious obligation, a commandment that bound all members of the community. In conclusion I would like to end this study by tracing the influence of Maharil’s approach to the monetary tithe on the German mindset, especially in the area of the Rhineland, through two influential custom books composed many years later in Frankfurt-am-Main.84 The first, Yosef Omets by R. Joseph Juspa Hahn Norlingen, was completed in 1630 but first published as late as 1723. The second is Noheg ka-Tson Yosef by Joseph b. Moses Kossmann, the grandson of Norlingen, completed and published in 1718. Joseph Hahn Norlingen in his Yosef Omets discusses under the same heading both the practice of tithing and that of giving charity; however at the outset he makes the point of distinguishing between the two practices:85 First let me inform you that man does not fulfill his obligation to give charity through proper giving of his tithe, for the tithe does not belong to him and therefore charity is a separate commandment.

In contrast to the various medieval scholars active in the thirteenth century, this author was convinced that the two obligations are clearly distinct. Charity is the giving of a voluntary gift whereas setting aside of tithe-money truly belongs to God; the money is ‘holy unto the Lord’. The grandson, Joseph Kossmann, is much less explicit in distinguishing between the two practices but in his own way no less emphatic. In structuring his book, Joseph Kossmann simply distances the two practices from one another. It is under the heading of ‘transactions (masa u-matan)’ that one can 84. See Fram, My dear Daughter, 170 [siman 10] where the author, R. Slonik, seamlessly moves from sources dealing with the agricultural tithe to his contemporary monetary tithe. He even writes of the person who does not tithe as someone who has ‘transgressed God’s commandment’! From this late sixteenth century Polish work of popular halakha we may conclude that already at this time Maharil’s approach to tithing had major impact. 85. Joseph Hahn Norlingen, Yosef Omets (Frankfort am Main, 1928), 306.

t h e m e d i e va l m o n e t a r y- t i t h e i n a s h k e n a z | 2 2 9 find his comment on the monetary tithe as he writes at the end of siman 2 86 ‘And be careful to set aside the tithe as it is written ‘aser ta‘aser. A number of pages later we do find a section under the heading of ‘Charity’, in which there is no mention of monetary tithing.87 In the eyes of Joseph Hahn Norlingen and of his grandson, tithing was not to be confused with private charity. True, the money of both charity and tithing may indeed have ended up in the hands of the poor but the nature of the deed was different; whereas the character of private charity was basically voluntary and open-ended, that of tithing was defined and mandatory. In giving charity man freely gave to assist the poor from what belonged to him; in setting aside the tithe, however, man actually was returning to God what belonged to Him. When Jacob Schiff, who was born into a family that had lived in Frankfurt am Main for centuries, insisted that his tithe money was not to be considered ‘philanthropy’ he was following this age-old Rhineland perception of the monetary tithe that began as early as the fourteenth century in the legal writings of R. Jacob Moellin of Mainz, and possibly even earlier. Schiff’s approach to tithing was simply a modern day expression of a religious truth formulated clearly by Joseph Hahn Norlingen of Frankfurt, but with its roots in legal traditions developed much earlier.

Appendix: the ‘tithe’ in the ordinances of R. Gershom of Mainz In reconstructing the development of the monetary tithe in medieval Germany I purposely ignored a number of medieval reports that mention the monetary tithe. These sources are the communal ordinances collected by Louis Finkelstein in his Jewish Self Government in the Middle Ages.88 The earliest report allegedly comes from the beginning of the eleventh century, the ordinances of R. Gershom of Mainz. The second is from the twelfth century, the ordinances of R. Jacob b. Meir better known as Rabbenu Tam. The last is from the first half of the thirteenth century, the ordinances of the three major Rhineland communities, known as Takkanot Shum. The reason I 86. Joseph b. Moses Kossmann, Noheg ka-Tson Yosef (Tel-Aviv, 1969), 106. 87. Ibid, 132–4. 88. Louis Finkelstein, Jewish Self Government in the Middle Ages (New York, 1964).

23 0 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s did not refer to these ordinances in my description of the monetary tithe is due to their problematic nature as historical sources. It is towards clarifying the various methodological issues involved with the use of these sources, in relation to monetary-tithing, that I will now turn. Scholars have already noted that the earliest surviving texts of the communal ordinances are from the late thirteenth century. This textual reality may not carry implications when discussing the latter two ordinances of R. Tam of the Rhineland communities; it is however very relevant with regard to those attributed to R. Gershom of Mainz. Even if one were to accept that the content of these texts actually reflects traditions that may be traced to two hundred and fifty years earlier, it would be unwise to assume that the language of the ordinances was accurately preserved as well.89 Moreover, there is an additional knotty textual relationship between the ordinances of R. Gershom and those of R. Tam. In the extant sources many of the earlier ordinances are interwoven with the later ones.90 This textual reality further weakens the possibility that the late textual witnesses preserve the earlier ordinance in its original form.91 A second basic methodological problem, which applies to all of the above ordinances, relates to their implementation. Even if one were to assume that the ordinances were ratified by the various communities we still would not know much about their implementation. One must ask: did the ordinances remain a mere ideal or did they actually impact upon the actions of the community members?92 The final issue that needs to be addressed is most relevant to the subject of tithing, and relates to the style and terminology of the ordinances. At times, the ordinance is formulated in such a terse fashion, lacking the social and historical detail necessary to comprehend its meaning or its purpose. At other times the ordinance is formulated utilizing rabbinic or biblical phrases which again make it difficult for the modern day reader to comprehend the reality it is describing. I will now show how these various issues affect our understanding of the medieval monetary tithe. The following are the three 89. See Avraham Grossman, The Early Sages of Ashkenaz: their Lives, Leadership, and Works 900–1096 (Hebrew) (Jerusalem, 2001), 134,140, 146. 90. See Finkelstein, Jewish Self Government, 204–5. 91. See Schwarzfuchs, ‘An Ordinance from 1313’, 209. 92. See Grossman, The Early Sages, 145–6.

t h e m e d i e va l m o n e t a r y- t i t h e i n a s h k e n a z | 231 ordinances referred to above. My analysis of these sources, however, will be limited to the ordinances of R. Gershom.

Texts93 1.  Ordinance attributed to R. Gershom (tenth–eleventh centuries) 94 A Takanah: one cannot refuse to be bound by the herem for the purpose of levying the tithe (shelo lisarev likanes ba-ḥerem leharim ma‘aser). One member of the community may compel everyone to enter the ḥerem if there is a minyan (i.e. a quorum of ten male Jews) in the city. But one cannot become a gabbai (an administrator of the funds) if the others do not permit it. This Takanah existed before R. Gershom but R. Gershom ordained that it be renewed yearly.95

2.  Ordinance from the time of R. Tam (twelfth century) 96 [To be bound by the Ḥerem]97 for the purpose of bringing the tithe to the [communal] treasury (likanes ba-ḥerem lehavi ha-ma‘aser el beit ha-otsar) one must reside but one month in the city. Members of a community who cannot give charity may compel others who can afford to give, provided they are not appointed treasurers of the funds.

3.  Ordinance from the Rhineland (thirteenth century) 98 We have also agreed and ordered that each man shall bring his tithes or other gifts99 to charity in accordance with the decree of the community.

93. The references to the ordinances (first in Hebrew and then in their English translation) will be to Finkelstein’s book, I however will allow myself to deviate from Finkelstein’s translation when I feel it necessary for the sake of clarity. 94. Finkelstein, Jewish Self Government, 194 (Hebrew text) and 199 (English text). 95. For an alternate reading of this last clause, see 194 n. 22: ‘And before R. Gershom the light of the Exile, Geonim legislated [to pay] half a tithe and R. Gershom legislated that it be renewed every year.’ This reading is almost certainly a later version, see Finkelstein, Jewish Self Government, 192. 96. Finkelstein, Jewish Self Government, 177 (Hebrew text) and 185–6 (English text). 97. I have chosen to put the words in brackets since it is unclear whether they are part of the ordinance or the end of the previous one. For the different versions of the ordinance see Finkelstein, Jewish Self Government, 177 (Hebrew text) and 185 (English text). 98. Finkelstein, Jewish Self Government, 230 (Hebrew text) and 247 (English text). See as well pages 19, 61. 99. See the different versions of this central line at 230 (Hebrew text) and 247 (English text).

23 2 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s Analysis At first we must point out that the reference to tithing from R. Gershom’s ordinance is preserved only among the ordinances of R. Tam. In addition, the earliest surviving text to preserve the ordinances is from the end of the thirteenth century. This time gap is significant enough and the textual relationship between the two ordinances collections complex enough to allow us to be skeptical about the exact formulation of the ordinances attributed to R. Gershom. Finally, one must question the meaning of the term ‘levying the tithe’ (leharim ma‘aser) in R. Gershom’s ordinance. Is it to be understood literally as referring to the practice of religious tithing or is the term being used in a borrowed sense and actually relating to the collection of communal charity? The ordinance does not supply enough detail to resolve this ambiguity. If anything, from the continuation of the ordinance, namely, that any ‘member of the community may compel everyone to enter the ḥerem if there is a minyan in the city but one cannot become a gabbai if the others do not permit it’, seems to point in the direction of an ordinance relating to public charity. A comparison of this clause with its parallel in R. Tam’s ordinance further strengthens the case for such a reading. In R. Tam’s ordinance, we read that ‘members of a community who cannot give charity may compel others who can afford to give, provided they are not appointed treasurers of the funds [gabbaim]’. This formulation indicates that in R. Gershom ordinance as well the real subject is communal charity and not religious tithing.100

100. I hope to further discuss these issues in the near future. Meanwhile see Finkelstein, Jewish Self Government, 185, n. 3 and 247, n. 3. See as well Constable, Monastic Tithes, 6, who writes that in medieval Latin sources ‘the word decima was used in many senses, ranging from a literal tenth, quite distinct from the ecclesiastic tithe, to various kinds of secular rents and taxes’. See as well Catherine E. Boyd, Tithes and Parishes in Medieval Italy: the Historical Roots of a Modern Problem (Ithaca, 1952), 2–4.

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The Canaanites who ‘trusted in God’: an original interpretation of the fate of the Canaanites in rabbinic literature K atell Berthelot Centre de R echerche Fr ançais à Jérusalem

In memory of Liora Elias, ‫( אשת חיל‬Pr. 31), ‫זʺל‬ a b s t r ac t This article tackles the issue of the fate of the Canaanites at the time of the conquest according to some rabbinic sources which contain an unusual tradition, according to which some of the Canaanites obeyed God’s will and left the Land that was to be given to the children of Israel. Acknowledging their merit, God gave them another land in Africa and allowed that the Land of Israel be called ‘Canaan’. It is argued that this tradition does not merely represent an attempt to defend the right of Israel to the Land, but reflects a genuine theological and ethical questioning about the fate of the Canaanites and, more generally, about the ability of Gentiles to know and obey God’s commandments. Finally, the exceptional character of this rabbinic tradition is emphasized through a comparison with a similar yet different tradition in the Hypothetica.

I

n t h e Hebrew Bible, the Canaanites are generally depicted as an abominable people, so monstrous that they ‘even’ (‫ )גם‬sacrifice their own children to their gods (Deut. 12:31). This, in turn, justifies the fact that they are to be expelled or utterly destroyed by the Hebrews when the latter enter the Land.1

This paper is based on a lecture I first gave at the SBL annual congress in San Diego in November 2007. While preparing the manuscript for publication, I presented a fuller version of the paper at a research seminar in Jewish Studies at Haifa University in April 2009, and then at Berkeley University in January 2010. I wish to thank Jonathan Ben-Dov on the one hand, Erich Gruen and Holger Zellentin on the other hand, for their kind invitations, and to thank all the participants for their very helpful comments and suggestions. Finally, I would like to express my gratitude to Maren Niehoff, Adiel Schremer, Ishay Rosen-Zvi and Evyatar Marienberg, who discussed this paper with me at some stage and made important remarks and suggestions. 1. A great deal has been written on the Canaanites in the biblical texts. See in particular D.R. Hillers, ‘Analyzing the Abominable: Our Understanding of Canaanite Religion’, JQR 75 (1985): 253–69; M. Weinfeld, ‘The Ban on the Canaanites in the Biblical Codes’, in History and Traditions of Early

23 4 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s However, nowhere in the biblical texts is it stated that the Canaanites were not the original inhabitants of the Land, or that they had taken possession of a land that originally did not belong to them. This idea is expressed for the first time in the Book of Jubilees in the second century B CE , and then found repeatedly in rabbinic literature.2 According to this tradition, the Canaanites are not only immoral idolaters, but also robbers who, moreover, frequently deny the right of Israel to possess the Land. However, a few rabbinic texts testify to a different tradition that sheds a more positive light on the inhabitants of Canaan, or at least some of them. According to this tradition, the Canaanites freely surrendered the land to the children of Israel when they were about to conquer it. As a consequence, these Canaanites were neither expelled nor killed. Instead, they left and were given by God a new land in Africa. This tradition has been referred to, but not studied in a detailed way, by previous scholars.3 The most extensive investigation is that of Philip Alexander in his unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, The Toponymy of the Targumim: with special reference to the table of the nations and the boundaries of the Land of Israel (1974).4 The tradition about the Canaanites who left the Land to go to Africa is also discussed in a study of Jewish presence in North Africa published that very same year by H.Z. Hirschberg.5 More recently, Robert Wilken has mentioned this tradition very briefly in his book The Land Called Holy: Palestine in Christian History and Thought.6 In most cases, reference is made to Israel (SVT 50; Leiden: Brill, 1993), 142–60, and The Promise of the Land: The Inheritance of the Land of Canaan by the Israelites (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993); R.L. Cohn, ‘Before Israel: The Canaanites as Other in Biblical Tradition’, in The Other in Jewish Thought and History. Constructions of Jewish Culture and Identity (ed. L.J. Silberstein and R.L. Cohn; New York: New York University Press, 1994), 74–90; C. Houtman, ‘Die ursprünglichen Bewohner des Landes Kanaan im Deuteronomium. Sinn und Absicht der Beschreibung ihrer Identität und ihres Charakters’, VT 52 (2002): 51–65. 2. For detailed references to the relevant sources, see below, section 1. 3. The following articles deserve special mention: W. Bacher, ‘The Supposed Inscription upon “Joshua the Robber”, Illustrated from Jewish Sources’, JQR 3 (1891): 354–5; S. Krauss, ‘Die biblische Völkertafel im Talmud, Midrasch und Targum’, MGWJ 39 (1895): 1–11, 49–63; V. Aptowitzer, ‘Les premiers possesseurs de Canaan, légendes apologétiques et exégétiques’, REJ 82 (1926): 274–86; H.(Y.) Lewy, ‘Ein Rechtsstreit um Boden Palästinas im Altertum’, MGWJ 77 (1933): 84–99, 172–80 (republished in Hebrew in Studies in Jewish Hellenism (‫( )עולמות נפגשים‬Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1960), 60–78). 4. See pp. 92–105. 5. See H.Z. (J.W.) Hirschberg, A History of the Jews in North Africa, vol. 1: From Antiquity to the Sixteenth Century (Leiden: Brill, 1974), 40–8. 6. R.L. Wilken, The Land Called Holy. Palestine in Christian History and Thought (New Haven/ London: Yale University Press, 1992), 30–3. He considers not only Jubilees, the Mekhilta and Leviticus Rabba to represent one and the same tradition, but also includes in it Wisdom of Solomon 12:3–7,

t h e c a n a a n i t e s w h o ‘t r u s t e d i n g o d’ | 235 the positive tradition about the Canaanites who left the Land in the context of a wider discussion about the polemics around the right of Israel to possess the Land, from the Hasmonean period until Late Antiquity. Therefore, the originality and the significance of this positive tradition have not received the attention they deserve, because it has been ‘drowned’ within the discussion of the texts that present the Canaanites as robbers or hostile accusers who put the right of Israel to possess the Land into question.7 In the first part of this paper, I shall briefly present this polemical background and some of the texts that convey a negative image of the Canaanites, on which previous studies have been focused. In the second part, I shall study the texts which, in my opinion, constitute a different, non-polemical tradition that was merged with the preceding one in a coherent narrative only at a later stage, probably from the fourth or the fifth century onwards. I shall examine all the relevant sources in a detailed way, adressing issues of variants in manuscripts and divergences between parallel texts, and try to highlight their meaning and significance. I shall argue that the passages from the Mekhilta, the Tosefta, the Talmud Yerushalmi and Leviticus Rabba that will be presented below contain a distinct tradition which represents an utopian or idealistic view of the relationship between the God of Israel, the non-Jewish populations of the Land, and the Land itself, whose meaning goes far beyond polemics and apologetic claims. In my opinion, this distinct tradition actually reflects a real theological and ethical questioning in rabbinic circles about the revelation of God’s will and God’s laws to humankind at large, and their acceptance or their rejection by the nations. Finally, in the third part I will try to make the exceptional character of this tradition even clearer through a comparison with Philo’s peculiar version of the fate of the Canaanites in the Hypothetica, which resembles the one found in the rabbinic texts to some extent and is apologetic as well, but in a very different way. It must be stated from the outset that the comparison is not meant to show a dependency of the rabbinic texts upon Philo, but rather to highlight the although the latter’s arguments are totally different. The only common denominator between all these texts is that they reflect upon the fate of the Canaanites. 7. Thus, Philip Alexander considers that the passages from the Mekhilta, the Tosefta, the Talmud Yerushalmi (see below), and Rashi on Genesis 12:6, represent one single tradition that merely consists of an apologetic response to those who accused the Jews of having robbed the land from the Canaanites (see The Toponymy of the Targumim, 97). However, as we shall see below, these texts echo traditions that were originally distinct, even if they pertain to the same general issue, the right of Israel to possess the Land.

236 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s specificity of the tradition found in the Mekhilta, the Tosefta, the Talmud Yerushalmi and Leviticus Rabba; in other terms, the purpose of the comparison is to make the originality of this tradition even more salient.

The polemics around the right to own the land The first text that must be referred to in order to contextualize the rabbinic texts that will be presented below is the Book of Jubilees, which predates them by several centuries, since it goes back to the second century B CE. The author of Jubilees re-writes the biblical account of the repartition of the lands between the descendants of Noah (Gen. 10) and introduces several modifications.8 According to Jubilees 9:1, Canaan and his descendants receive a territory in the Western part of North Africa, an affirmation that runs contrary to the plain, literal meaning of Genesis 10:19, which states that ‘the territory of the Canaanites extended from Sidon, in the direction of Gerar, as far as Gaza, and in the direction of Sodom, Gomorrah, Admah, and Tseboim, as far as Lasha.’ 9 Moreover, at the end of chapter 9, the author of Jubilees specifies that Noah made his sons ‘swear by oath to curse each and every one who wanted to occupy the share which did not emerge by his lot. All of them said: “So be it”! So be it for them and their children until eternity during their generations until the day of judgment’ ( Jub. 9:14–15).10 The stage having been skilfully set in chapters 7–9, the final coup de théâtre comes in chapter 10, when the reader is told that Canaan chose to settle in a country that belonged to the descendants of Shem, ‘in the land of Lebanon – from Hamath to the entrance of Egypt – , he and his sons until the present’ ( Jub. 10:33). For this reason the land was named ‘Canaan’, and Canaan himself, 8. On the repartition of territories in the Book of Jubilees, see in particular J.C. VanderKam, ‘Putting Them in Their Place: Geography as an Evaluative Tool’, in Pursuing the Text. Studies in Honor of Ben Zion Wacholder (ed. J.C. Reeves and J. Kampen; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), 46–69. See also P.S. Alexander, ‘Notes on the “Imago Mundi” of the Book of Jubilees’, JJS 33 (1982): 197–213; J. Frey, ‘Zum Weltbild im Jubiläenbuch’, in Studies in the Book of Jubilees (ed. M. Albani, J. Frey and A. Lange; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997), 261–92, esp. 279–85; J.M. Scott, ‘The Division of the Earth in Jubilees 8:11–9:15 and Early Christian Chronography’, in Studies in the Book of Jubilees, 295–323; id., Geography in Early Judaism and Christianity: The Book of Jubilees (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 23–43; C. Werman, ‘Jubilees in the Hellenistic Context’, in Heavenly Tablets. Interpretation, Identity and Tradition in Ancient Judaism (ed. L. LiDonnici and A. Lieber; Leiden: Brill, 2007), 133–58 (see 136–41). 9. All translations of biblical texts are from The New Oxford Annotated Bible: Revised Standard Edition (ed. H.G. May and B. Metzger; New York: Oxford University Press, 1977), unless stated otherwise. 10. Transl. J.C. VanderKam, The Book of Jubilees (CSCO 511; Louvain: Peeters, 1989), 58.

t h e c a n a a n i t e s w h o ‘t r u s t e d i n g o d’ | 237 together with his offspring, was cursed for having settled in a land which was not his. According to Jubilees, the curse on Canaan and his descendants (Gen. 9:24–7) was thus twofold, being the consequence both of the sin of Ham and of the decision of Canaan himself to seize a land that did not belong to him.11 The Book of Jubilees implicitly presents the ulterior fate of the Canaanites at the time of the conquest under Joshua as a just punishment for their original transgression. The tradition found in the Book of Jubilees may have arisen from polemical debates about the sovereignty over the Land at the time of the Hasmoneans.12 Strabo’s description of the Hasmoneans as ‘tyrants’ and ‘robbers’ – which may go back to Posidonius of Apamea – probably reflects the perspective of the Syro-Phoenician or Greek adversaries of the Judeans during the Hasmonean wars of conquest, under the leadership of John Hyrcanus and Alexander Jannaeus.13 The author of Jubilees may have identified the Syro-Phoenician inhabitants of the coast who were hostile to the Judeans with the ancient inhabitants of the Land, since Canaanites and Phoenicians were to a great extent considered the same people.14 Now, the idea that the country originally alloted to Canaan was located on the Western edge of North Africa is congruent with the connection between 11. On the curse of Canaan in Genesis 9 and its connections or lack of connections with the conquest that happened later on, see D.M. Goldenberg, The Curse of Ham. Race and Slavery in Early Judaism, Christianity and Islam (Princeton/Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2003). The first connection between the curse of Canaan in Genesis 9:24–27 and the gift of the Land to the descendants of Abraham is probably found in 4Q252 II 1+3 5–8 (ed. and transl. by G.J. Brooke, in DJD XXII. Qumran Cave 4. XVII: Parabiblical Texts, Part 3, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996, 199), if it is prior to Jubilees. The idea that Canaan and his descendants seized a land that was meant to belong to the the children of Israel is found in many rabbinic texts. See for instance Sifra, Qedoshim 9.4–7 (Weiss 93b–c, 11.15–17); Sifre Deut. 311, on Deuteronomy 32:8; V. Aptowitzer, ‘Les premiers possesseurs de Canaan’, 282–4. However, in the rabbinic texts it is not necessarily connected with the story of the curse in Genesis 9. 12. See R.H. Charles, The Book of Jubilees or the Little Genesis (London: A. & C. Black, 1902), 68; Lewy, ‘Ein Rechtsstreit um Boden Palästinas im Altertum;’ Alexander, The Toponymy of the Targumim, 103; D. Mendels, The Land of Israel as a Political Concept in the Hasmonean Literature (TSAJ 15; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck: 1987), 57–88, esp. 65–7. 13. See Geography 16.2.37 and 40; M. Stern, GLAJJ 1.294–311, esp. 300–2 (no115); B. Bar-Kochva, ‘Mosaic Judaism and Judaism of the Second Temple Period – the Jewish Ethnography of Strabo’, Tarbiz 66/3 (1997): 297–336; K. Berthelot, ‘Poseidonios d’Apamée et les Juifs’, JSJ 34/2 (2003): 160–98. For a different perspective, see I. Shatzman, ‘The Hasmoneans in Greco-Roman Historiography’, Zion 57/1 (1992): 5–64. 14. According to Genesis 10:15, Sidon is the first-born of Canaan. In the LXX, the Hebrew names ‫ כנען‬and ‫ כנעני‬are translated by ‘Phoenicia’ or ‘Phoenician’ in Exodus 6:15; 16:35, Joshua 5:1, 5:12, and Job 40:30. On the close links between Canaanite and Phoenician cultures, see for instance G. Bunnens, ‘Canaan’, in Dictionnaire de la civilisation phénicienne et punique (ed. E. Lipinski; Turnhout: Brepols, 1992), 87, and the literature listed there.

238 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s the other sons of Ham and areas in Africa (Mitsraim–Egypt; Cush–Ethiopia; Put–Lybia). Moreover, it is a sound hypothesis to suppose that it derives from the connection between Canaanites and Phoenicians, and from the well-known existence of Phoenician colonies in North Africa.15 A similar yet different connection betweeen Canaanites and Phoenicians is found in an account of the origins of the Moors in the History of the Wars of Justinian written by the Byzantine rhetor Procopius, in the sixth century CE. Procopius writes that it was Joshua ‘who led this people [the Hebrews] into Palestine, and, by displaying a valour in war greater than that natural to a man, gained possession of the land’.16 Then he adds: Now at that time the whole country along the sea from Sidon as far as the boundaries of Egypt was called Phoenicia. … In that country there dwelt very populous tribes, the Gergesites and the Jebusites and some others with other names by which they are called in the history of the Hebrews. Now when these nations saw that the invading general was an irresistible prodigy, they emigrated from their ancestral homes and made their way to Egypt, which adjoined their country. And finding there no place sufficient for them to dwell in, since there has been a great population in Egypt from ancient times, they proceeded to Libya. And they established numerous cities and took possession of the whole of Libya as far as the Pillars of Heracles, and there they have lived even up to my time, using the Phoenician tongue. They also built a fortress in Numidia, where now is the city called Tigisis. In that place are two columns made of white stones near by the great spring, having Phoenician letters cut in them which say in the Phoenician tongue: ‘We are they who fled from before the face of Joshua, the robber, the son of Nun’.17

Finally, Procopius makes the interesting observation that when Phoenicians settled in North Africa later on and founded Carthage, they were indeed considered kinsmen by the group which came from Canaan (now called the Moors), but that they remained different peoples, to the point that they even fought against each other at a later stage in history (4.10.25–7). Therefore, in Procopius’ account the land of Canaan is considered part of Phoenicia and the 15. See Alexander, The Toponymy of the Targumim, 93. Much has been written on the possible connections between Canaanites and Phoenician colonization in north Africa; see for instance F.-C. Movers, Die Phönizier, II/2: Geschichte der Colonien (Berlin: Ferd. Dümmerl, 1850), 363ff; S.  Gsell, Histoire ancienne de l’Afrique du Nord (Paris: Hachette, 1913), 1:340ss; A.H. Krappe, ‘Les Chananéens dans l’ancienne Afrique du Nord et en Espagne’, The American Journal of Semitic Languages and Literatures 57/3 (1940): 229–43; A.J. Frendo, ‘Two Long-lost Phoenician Inscriptions and the Emergence of Ancient Israel’, PEQ 134 (2002): 37–43; Ph.C. Schmitz, ‘Procopius’ Phoenician Inscriptions: Never Lost, not Found’, PEQ 139/2 (2007): 99–104. 16. History of the Wars 4.10.13, transl. H.B. Dewing, LCL, 287. 17. History of the Wars 4.10.15–22, ibid., 289.

t h e c a n a a n i t e s w h o ‘t r u s t e d i n g o d’ | 239 Canaanites are Phoenicians, but the settlement of the Canaanites in North Africa is ultimately distinguished from the settlement of the Phoenicians known to have led to the foundation of Carthage at the end of the ninth century B CE – an aspect of Procopius’ text which has often been overlooked by commentators.18 The inscription referred to by Procopius, whose historicity we shall not discuss here,19 in any case reflects an account of the fate of the Canaanites that is to some extent the opposite of the story told in Jubilees, as if reflected in a reversing mirror. Whereas in the latter the Canaanites were supposed to dwell in Africa but seized the Land of Israel by force, according to the former the Canaanite Phoenicians were the original inhabitants of Palestine, but had to flee to Africa in order to escape the Hebrews. Obviously, the story told in Jubilees stems from a Jewish milieu, whereas the inscription quoted by Procopius reflects an anti-Jewish, probably pagan perspective. Christian writers would hardly have identified themselves with the idolatrous Canaanites who dwelt in the Land at the time of the conquest.20 Rabbinic literature contains both the idea according to which the Canaanites seized a land that was not supposed to be theirs (since it belonged to the children of Israel right from the outset), and echoes of hostile accounts accusing the Jews of having robbed the land from the Canaanites, as in the inscription referred to by Procopius.21 In Genesis Rabbah 1.2, in connection 18. One exception is H.Z. Hirschberg, A History, 46. 19. See recently the debate between A.J. Frendo, ‘Two Long-lost Phoenician Inscriptions’ (who admits the inscription’s historicity) and Ph.C. Schmitz, ‘Procopius’ Phoenician Inscriptions’ (a response to Frendo). 20. Even those who were born and lived in North Africa, such as Augustinus, would probably not have identified themselves with Canaanites; see for instance Augustinus’ comments on Wisdom 12 in his incomplete work against the Pelagian Julianus (in Oeuvres complètes de Saint Augustin, Paris: Louis Vivès, 1873, vol. XXXII, 382–6, 389). 21. Moreover, rabbinic literature also contains developments on the moral guilt of the Canaanites. The rabbinic texts either emphasize the abominations of the Canaanites, as many biblical passages do (see in particular Lev. 18:26–30 and Deut. 12:29–31; Leviticus Rabba 23.7 on Lev. 18:3 and Sifre Deuteronomy 81 on Deut. 12:31, ed. Finkelstein, p. 147), or stress that the Canaanites were given the opportunity to repent, in which case they would have been spared (see for instance Sifre Deuteronomy 202 on Deut. 20:18, ed. Finkelstein, p. 238). They were given the opportunity to repent because after the children of Israel had crossed the Jordan and entered Canaan, the commandments of the Torah were written on the stones of the altar built on Mount Ebal – or the stones erected when Israel crossed the Jordan (cf. Deut. 27:2–8 and Josh. 8:30–32) – in seventy languages (an interpretation of ‫ בּ ַ א ֵר ה ֵי ט ֵב‬in Deut. 27:8), which means that they were made known to the nations (who, in the Tosefta and the Talmudim, are said to have been inspired by God to send scribes to copy the words of the Torah; but then the nations rejected them, and therefore were condemned). On this particular tradition see mSota 7.5; tSota 8.6–7; ySota 7.5, 21d; bSota 35b–36a; as well as a passage from Mekhilta Deuteronomy on Deut. 27:8, originally published by S. Schechter, then reproduced and studied by

240 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es with Psalm 111:6, ‘He has shown his people the power of his works, in giving them the heritage of the nations’, the midrash attributes to R. Levi (a Palestinian amora from the beginning of the fourth century) the following saying: ‘For which reason did the Holy One Blessed be He reveal to Israel what had been created on the first day, on the second day, etc.? Because of the nations of the world, in order to prevent them from taunting Israel and from telling them: “Are you not a nation of robbers (‫ בזוזים‬or ‫ ”?)בזזות‬etc.’22 One finds the same saying with only minor variants in Midrash Tanhuma (ed. Buber §11), where it is attributed to R. Isaac, another amora from the beginning of the fourth century, who studied with R. Yohanan like R. Levi. In his commentary on Genesis 1:1, Rashi quotes this saying as well, but uses the Greek word lèstès (‫)לסטים‬, as in Procopius’ account, making the connection with the anti-Jewish accusations known from Greek literature even more striking. Another tradition found in Genesis Rabbah 61.7 (in connection with Genesis 25:6) tells that once, Alexander the Great was asked by the children of Ishmael, the Canaanites and the Egyptians to perform as a judge between them and the children of Israel.23 The Canaanites claimed a right to the land based on its being named Canaan, and asked that it be returned to them. The answer of the Jewish emissary, based on Genesis 9:25, was to argue that what belongs to a slave belongs to his master. According to the parallel tradition found in bSanhedrin 91a,24 the Canaanites are named bneï Afriqi, apparently referring to Canaanites who had settled in Africa, as in Procopius’ account.

S. Lieberman in his Tosefta Ki-Fshutah vol.8, 700–1. tSota 8.7 and bSota 35b clearly state that if the Canaanites had repented, they would not have been destroyed. As we shall see below, according to other rabbinic texts, most of the Canaanites were also guilty of having rejected the peace offered by Joshua. The moral-religious justification of the fate of the Canaanites should be distinguished from the more legal one represented by the texts that discuss the right of Israel to possess the Land. This distinction was already made by V. Aptowitzer and H. Lewy (see the bibliography in n. 3). 22. See Theodor-Albeck XX, 1:4–5: ‫שלא יהיו מונין את ישראל ואומרין להם חלא אומה של בזוזים‬. ‫אתם‬. The answer of the children of Israel consists in replying that the Canaanites themselves took the land from others and that the whole earth belongs to God, who attributes territories to whom He wants. 23. On this story, see I. Lévy, ‘La dispute entre les Egyptiens et les Juifs’, REJ 63 (1912): 211–15; O. Amitay, ‘The Story of Gviha Ben-Psisa and Alexander the Great’, JSPs 16/1 (2006): 61–74. 24. See also Megillat Ta‘anit on the 25th of Sivan, in the scholion according to ms Parma (for the version with bneï Afriqa); see V. Noam, Megillat Ta‘anit: Versions, Interpretation, History (Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi, 2003), 70–2, 200–5. The date of this particular passage is uncertain, but the tradition may be older than the fourth century CE . Generally speaking the scholion was added to Megillat Ta‘anit quite early on, and the Megilla itself (the calendar) probably dates back to the first century CE (see 19–21).

t h e c a n a a n i t e s w h o ‘t r u s t e d i n g o d’ | 2 4 1 That the claim of the Jews to be the legitimate owners of the Land was questioned by non-Jews is thus clear at least in the sources dating from the fifth to sixth centuries CE – and if the attribution to R. Levi in Genesis Rabbah or to R. Isaac in Midrash Tanhuma is reliable, one could date these discussions back to the fourth century CE . There certainly was a polemic around the ownership of the Land in Antiquity, both in the Hasmonean period and (at least) from the fourth or the fifth century CE onwards. Since Christians started to appropriate the ‘Holy Land’ in the fourth century, could the tradition referred to above be seen as a reaction against such a process of ‘Christianization’? This seems unlikely, because Christian authors did not endorse the point of view of the Canaanites. On the contrary, having appropriated the Hebrew Bible as Holy Scriptures, they generally adhered to the biblical narrative according to which the Canaanites were abominable idolaters whom God was right to punish and dispossess. Moreover, some halakhic midrashim dating from the third century CE already contain echoes of polemics concerning the legitimate owners of the Land. In Sifra for instance, in connection with Leviticus 20:24, the children of Israel ask God: ‘Don’t you have (anything) to give us except what belongs to another (people)? [?(‫’]אין לך ליתן לנו אלא משל )אחר‬.25 God answers to the children of Israel that the Land belongs to them because they are the descendants of Shem, whereas the descendants of Ham dwell in the Land only temporarily – an argument that recalls the Book of Jubilees. The tradition found in bSanhedrin 91a, which is also part of the scholion of Megillat Ta‘anit on the 25th of Sivan, could also date back to the period preceding the fourth century CE , although it cannot be proven in a definite way.26 The historical context in which new polemics developped may have had to do with the renewed growth of the Jewish population in the coastal plain of Palestine in the third century CE and the growing tensions between Jews and Phoenicians, especially in Caesarea – as plausibly suggested by Philip Alexander27 – as well as with conflicts between Jews and non-Jews in North Africa – an interesting hypothesis put forward by H.Z. Hirschberg.28

25. Sifra Qedoshim 9.7 (Weiss 93c, 11.17). Ms Vaticanus 66: ‫אין לך תתן לנו אילא משלאחרים‬. 26. See note 24 above. 27. See The Toponymy of the Targumim, 101–4. 28. See A History of the Jews, 46.

24 2 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es Now, the rabbinic tradition that apparently resembles Procopius’ scenario most closely is the one found in the Mekhilta de Rabbi Ishmael and the Tosefta, according to which the Canaanites left and went to Africa when they heard that the children of Israel were about to enter the land. However, this tradition, which is earlier than the ones found in Genesis Rabba and the other texts mentioning a connection between the Canaanites and Africa, does not contain polemical echoes of the kind encountered in the sources quoted above. On the contrary, the story of the migration is a peaceful one in which a very positive light is shed on the Canaanites, with whom there is no conflict at all. Let us now turn to these texts and examine them closely.

The Canaanites who ‘trusted in God’: the testimony of the Mekhilta de Rabbi Ishmael, the Tosefta, the Talmud Yerushalmi, and Leviticus Rabba 29 Concerning Exodus 13:11, ‫וְהָיָה כִּי־יְבִאֲךָ יְהוָה אֶל־אֶרֶץ הַכְּנַעֲנׅי‬, ‘And when the Lord brings you into the land of the Canaanite’, the Mekhilta de Rabbi Ishmael adds the following comments: ‫זכה כנען שתקרא הארץ על שמו וכי מה עשה כנען אלא כיון ששמע כנען שישראל‬ ‫ה אתה פינית מפני בני אף אני אקרא‬″‫נכנסין לארץ עמד ופינה מפניהם אמר לו הקב‬ ‫ ואי זו זו זו אפריקא․ וכן הוא או' וכנען‬.‫הארץ על שמך ואתן לך ארץ יפה כארצך‬ ‫ילד את צידון בכרו ואת חת וכתיב ויענו בני חת את אברהם לאמר לו שמענו אדני‬ ‫ אמר להם הקב׳׳ה אתם כבדתם את ידידי אף אני אקרא את הארץ על שמכם ואתן‬.'‫וג‬ 30 .‫ ואי זו זו זו אפריקי‬.‫לכם ארץ יפה כארצכם‬

Canaan merited that the Land should be called by his name. But what did Canaan do (to deserve this honour)? Simply this: As soon as he heard that the Israelites were about to enter the land, he got up and moved away from before them. The Holy One Blessed be He then said to him: ‘You have moved away from before My children; I, in turn, will call the land by your name and will give you a(nother) land as beautiful as yours. And which is it? It is Africa.’   Likewise, it says: ‘And Canaan begat Zidon his first-born and Heth’ (Gen. 10:15). And it is written: ‘And the children of Heth answered Abraham, saying unto him: Hear us, my Lord (you are a prince of God among us. Bury your 29. The testimony of Tanhuma, Bo 12 (ed. Warshaw), Deuteronomy Rabba (5.14) and Numbers Rabba (17.3), which contain further attestations of the traditions found in the Mekhilta, the Tosefta and the Talmud Yerushalmi, are not taken into consideration here because these midrashim are dated from a later period and do not add new elements that would need to be taken into account. See also note 77 below. 30. Pisha 18, ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 69–70.

t h e c a n a a n i t e s w h o ‘t r u s t e d i n g o d’ | 2 43 dead in the choicest of our sepulchres…)’ (Gen. 23:5–6). The Holy One Blessed be He then said to them: You have honoured My friend. I, in turn, will call the land by your name and give you a(nother) land as beautiful as yours. And which is it? It is Africa.31

The midrash addresses the issue raised by the expression ‘‫ ’אֶרֶץ הַכְּנַעֲנׅי‬in Exodus 13:11, which seems to imply that the Land, although promised as an inheritance to the children of Israel, originally belonged to the Canaanites. A very innovative solution is found: the Land was called ‘‫ ’אֶרֶץ הַכְּנַעֲנׅי‬as a reward for the obedience of the Canaanite who surrendered the place to the children of Israel when time had come for God to fulfil his promise to give the land to Abraham’s descendants. This tradition implies that the land originally belonged to the Canaanites and that their presence in the country was not the result of a transgression. Now, some manuscripts of the Mekhilta bear testimony to a different version of the midrash. According to ms Oxford 151 and ms Munich 117,32 one should not read ‫ ארץ יפה כארצך‬and ‫כארצכם‬, but rather ‫ארץ יפה בארצך‬ and ‫( בארצכם‬that is, ‘I will give you a beautiful land in your country [of origin]’).33 In his edition, Jacob Z. Lauterbach actually chooses the version with ‫ב‬, and explains the passage as follows: ‘The original country of the Canaanites, descendants of Canaan, the son of Ham, was Africa. The Canaanites, however, in the course of time conquered Palestine, taking it away from the sons of Shem to whom Palestine belonged.… The Canaanites … now were going back to their original country, Africa.’ This version of the story of the Canaanites may be connected with the tradition found in the Book of Jubilees.34 As mentioned above, the reference to Africa may be explained by the link between Ham’s descendants and Africa on the one hand, and the 31. Translation by J.Z. Lauterbach (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1976), 1:157–158 (1:107–8 in the new edition published in 2004), slightly modified in accordance with the Hebrew text from the edition of Horovitz-Rabin. 32. Ms Oxford 151 is the text chosen by the Academy for the Hebrew Language, and it can easily be consulted on the website Maagarim (hebrew-treasures.huji.ac.il). As far as ms Munich 117 is concerned, see The Munich Mekhilta: Bavarian State Library, Munich, Cod. Hebr. 117 (ed. J. Goldin; Copenhagen: Rosenkilde and Bagger, 1980), Folio 24r. For a complete presentation of the manuscripts of the Mekhilta, see M. Kahana, Manuscripts of the Halakhic Midrashim. An Annotated Catalogue (Jerusalem: The Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities/Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi, 1995), 37–49. 33. Writing ‫ ב‬instead of ‫ כ‬can of course be analysed as a scribal mistake, but the fact that two good manuscripts contain this reading and that ‫ ב‬is used consistently in the two passages rules out an explanation of the change as a mere error. 34. See Jubilees 8.10–9.14, 28–33; H. Lewy, ‘Ein Rechtsstreit um Boden Palästinas im Altertum’, 90–92; VanderKam, ‘Putting them in their Place’; etc.

24 4 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es identification of the Canaanites with the Phoenicians and the Phoenician settlements in North Africa on the other.35 However, the following question remains: in the eyes of the redactor of the Mekhilta, was Africa the original homeland of the Canaanites, or the place they were attributed by God only after they had abandoned Canaan? The original version of the story certainly was the one with ‫כארצך‬. First, two fragments of the Mekhilta found in the Genizah attest the reading with ‫כ‬, and T-S AS 78.308 (Cambridge) corresponds to ms A,36 a particularly good manuscript.37 Second, the parallel traditions in the Tosefta, the Talmud Yerushalmi, and Leviticus Rabba corroborate the conclusion that the reading ‫ כארצך‬is the most original one. In y. Shevi‘it 6:1, 36c, especially, a biblical proof-text (2 Kg. 18:32 or Is. 36:17) is added which contains the expression ‫ארץ כארצכם‬, the only instance of such an expression in the entire Hebrew Bible; obviously the redactor knew the version of the midrash with ‫כארצך‬.38 Before having a look at the other texts, the meaning of the passage in the Mekhilta must be examined more carefully. The midrash solves the difficulty raised by the expression ‫ אֶרֶץ הַכְּנַעֲנׅי‬by affirming that the land was 35. Philip Alexander writes: ‘It is hardly too much to suppose that the Rabbis would have known that great cities like Carthage and Utica were Phoenician colonies in origin. The Targumim render Tarshish where it is linked with Tyre and Sidon in the Bible by Africa. Moreover, “the Canaanites which are outside the Land” in b. Sot. 35b is probably a reference to the Phoenician diaspora, particularly in north Africa’ (The Toponymy of the Targumim, 97–8). 36. See text no21 (l.2 and 6) in M. Kahana, The Genizah Fragments of the Halakhic Midrashim (Jerusalem: The Hebrew University/Magnes Press, 2005), 22: ‫ מ[פני בני א]ף‬1 ‫ [ם לך ארץ יפה כ]ארצך‬2 ‫ [ וכן הוא או' וכ]נען‬3 ‫ [ חת וגו' שמעינו אדו]ני‬4 ‫ [ את ידידי אף א]ני‬5 ]‫ ו‬:‫ [ה ארץ ]יפה[ מא]רצ[כם‬6 The reading with ‫ מ‬on l.6 does not modify the meaning of the midrash in the way the reading with ‫ ב‬does; it merely means that the land which the children of Heth received was even more beautiful than their original country and not only as beautiful. For the list of all fragments belonging to ms A, see Kahana, Manuscripts of the Halakhic Midrashim, 41–3. The second fragment (with ‫ )כ‬is Heb. C 27.69 (Oxford), which belongs to ms B; see text no23 (l.1–2) in M. Kahana, The Genizah Fragments, 23. On the importance of the fragments from the Genizah, see M. Kahana, ‘The Critical Edition of Mekilta de-Rabbi Ishmael in the Light of the Genizah Fragments’, Tarbiz 55/4 (1986): 489–524; id., ‘The Tannaitic Midrashim’, in The Cambridge Genizah Collections: Their Contents and Significance (ed. S. Reich; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 59–73. 37. See L. Elias, Mekhilta de-Rabi Yishma‘el ‘al-pi ‘otek me‘uleh min ha-Genizah, MA thesis, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1997. 38. See below the paragraphs on the passage in the Talmud Yerushalmi. Philip Alexander, who was also aware of the problem raised by the manuscripts, concluded that ‘the correct text is undoubtedly ‫ כארצכם‬...‫ כארצך‬as in the editions of Constantinople and Venice’ (The Toponymy of the Targumim, 94).

t h e c a n a a n i t e s w h o ‘t r u s t e d i n g o d’ | 2 45 described in this way due to merit shown by the Canaanite, who, when he heard that the children of Israel were about to enter the country, left and surrendered the land to them. What exactly did the merit of the Canaanite involve? Although quite elliptical, the text makes it clear that the Canaanite did not leave out of fear – this would hardly have led to his praise and to a divine reward. Thus, it implies that the Canaanite recognized the right of Israel to the Land, rooted in the divine will to give it to them, and so obeyed God.39 It must be emphasized that this point radically distinguishes the story told in the Mekhilta from the one told by Procopius, according to which the Canaanites fled in front of Joshua because they were afraid of his military prouesses, not at all because they acknowledged the will of God and the right of the children of Israel to settle in the Land. Moreover, the second passage – concerning the sons of Heth, who belong to the peoples of Canaan, as Genesis 10:15 recalls – confirms this interpretation. Not only do the sons of Heth behave in a humane way towards Abraham (by granting him a place where he can bury Sarah), but, by calling him ‫נְשִׂיא אֱ ל ֹהׅים‬, ‘prince of God’ (according to Genesis 23:6), they acknowledge his status as one chosen and honoured by God. And by honouring Abraham, they in fact honour God himself. Just as, in the first passage, the Canaanite implicitly admits the election of the children of Israel and therefore surrenders the land to them, in the second passage, the Hittites acknowledge the election of Abraham and are willing to give him a piece of land. The fact that the merit is identical in both cases explains why God rewards it in the same way and why the two passages are placed side by side. A comparison with a similar tradition in Sifra40 proves illuminating. There, the Hittites’ exceptional mark of reverence towards Abraham grants them the right to stay 47 more years in their country. However, the Hittites are referred to in the context of a commentary on Leviticus 18:3 (‘You shall not do as they do in the land of Egypt, where you dwelt, and you shall not do as as they do in the land of Canaan, to which I am bringing you’), in which both the Egyptians and the Canaanites are successively said to be the most abominable of all people. Then the question raised by the midrash is: For which reason did the Canaanites merit (‫ )זכו‬to dwell (peacefully) in their 39. After having repented his previous transgression, if the version with ‫ ב‬is to be followed. 40. Sifra, Aharei Mot 8.1 or 8.6 (depending on the editions) (Weiss 85c, 9.7): ‫אדם שכיבדו את‬ ‫אברהם אבינו זכו לישב בארצם שבע וארבעים שנה‬.

‫בני‬

246 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es country 47 years after the Egyptians were smitten? Why were they given such a respite? The answer then consists in referring to Genesis 23:6 and the honour shown by the Hittites to Abraham. However, in the context of this passage the Canaanites in general remain negative characters who will ultimately be expelled by the descendants of Abraham. In Sifra the positive tradition about the deserving Canaanites is merged into the majority tradition that casts the Canaanites in a negative light and depicts them as a hostile and abominable people. In the end, the version with ‫ ב‬that appears in some mss of the Mekhilta can be analysed as a reworking of the original midrashic tradition, which tries to harmonize the latter with the tradition known from Jubilees and other passages in rabbinic literature, according to which the Land originally belonged to the descendants of Shem (Israel) but was settled unlawfully by the Canaanites, who had received a territory in Africa. The merit of the Canaanites referred to in the Mekhilta is further emphasized in Tosefta Shabbat 7.25: ‫ וכן מצינו‬.‫ורבן שמעון בן גמליאל אומ' אין לך בכל עממין מתון יותר מאמוריים‬ ‫שהאמינו במקום וגלו לאפרקי ונתן להם המקום ארץ שיפה כארצם והיתה‬ 41 .‫ישראל נקראת על שמן‬-‫ארץ‬

And Rabban Shimeon ben Gamaliel says: No people is more considerate than the Amorites; and so we find that they trusted in God (lit.: the place, the Omnipresent) and went into exile in Africa. And God gave them a land which is as beautiful as their own, and the Land of Israel was called by their name.

Like ‘Canaanite’, the name ‘Amorite’ can refer either to one of the peoples of Canaan42 or to the Canaanites in general. Thus, in Amos 2:10, God speaks as follows: ‘I brought you up out of the land of Egypt, and led you forty years in the wilderness, to possess the land of the Amorite (‫לָרֶשֶׁת‬ ‫)אֶת־אֶרֶץ הָ אֱ מ ֹרׅי‬.’ 43 The passage in the Tosefta may implicitly rely on this 41. See The Tosefta according to Codex Vienna, with Variants from Codices Erfurt, London, Genizah Mss. And Editio Princeps (Venice 1521) (ed. S. Lieberman; New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1962), 29. In Lieberman’s apparatus, there is no variant like the one found in the manuscripts of the MRI. See also his commentary on the Tosefta, Tosefta ki-Fshuta: A Comprehensive Commentary on the Tosefta. Part III. Order Mo‘ed (Jerusalem: Jewish Theological Seminary of America/Maxwell Abbell Publication Fund, 1992), 105. 42. See Gen. 15:21, Exod. 3:8.17, 13:5, 23:23, 33:2, 34:11, Num. 13:29, Deut. 7:1–2, 20:17, Jos. 3:10, 9:1, 11:3, 12:8, 24:11, Judg. 3:5, Ez. 9:1, Neh. 9:8, 1 Chr. 1:13–14. ֱ  ָ‫ אֶרֶץ ה‬is used too, but there it seems to refer to the 43. In Numbers 21:31, the expression ‫א מ ֹרׅי‬

t h e c a n a a n i t e s w h o ‘t r u s t e d i n g o d’ | 2 47 verse, since it is the only biblical verse in which the land of Canaan is called ‘the land of the Amorite’, without any reference to another Canaanite people. However, there is no explicit exegetical context to Rabban Shimeon ben Gamaliel’s affirmation; he is actually answering R. Yose, who said: ‘You have no people harsher than the Amorites, for so long as a man is harsh, they call him “Amorite!” ’ 44 So here the reasons for mentioning the story of the migration of the Canaanites to Africa are less compelling than in the Mekhilta, where it is justified by the necessity to explain the expression ‫ אֶרֶץ הַכְּנַעֲנׅי‬in Exodus 13:11. Moreover, the Tosefta represents an abbreviated form of the tradition on which the passage in the Mekhilta is based. Rabban Shimeon ben Gamaliel’s affirmation relies on the assumption that the Amorites had heard that the Israelites were about to enter the land and that they ‘got up and moved away from before them’, as the Mekhilta states. In the Tosefta this information about the original context in which the Amorites/ Canaanites got up and moved to Africa is lost, because the version of the Tosefta is based on a more elaborate tradition that was already known. One may add, following Philip Alexander,45 that ‘Rabban Shim‘on ben Gamliel clearly knew the tradition of the departure of the Canaanites in roughly the form in which it is found in the Mekhilta, and simply applied to it the hermeneutical rule of the “general and particular” in order to frame a reply to R. Yose.’ What does the Tosefta tell us concerning the origin of the Canaanites? By using the expression ‫ארץ שיפה כארצם‬,46 it corroborates the version ‫ארץ‬ ‫‘( יפה כארצכם‬a land as beautiful as yours’) in the Mekhilta.47 Moreover, the use of the verb ‫גלה‬, which is not used in the mss of the Mekhilta, seems to indicate that, in the mind of the redactor of the Tosefta, they were exiled from a country that was indeed their home. This passage of the Tosefta reflects the idea that the Canaanites were the original inhabitants of the Land, not that territory of Moab, in Transjordan, between the Arnon and the Jabbok. See also Jos. 24:8, Judg. 10:8 and 11:21–23. 44. Translation by J. Neusner, in The Tosefta. Moed (New York: Ktav Publishing House, 1981), 25. In S.  Lieberman’s edition, 29: ‫אין לך בכל העממים קשה יותר מאמרי שכל זמן שאדם קשה קורין‬ ‫אותו אמורי‬. 45. The Toponymy of the Targumim, 95. 46. In the ms Erfurt (‫ )א‬and the ms London 445 (Brit. Mus. Add, 27.296) (‫)ל‬, there is no ‫ ש‬before ‫יפה‬. But the meaning remains the same. 47. No manuscript of the Tosefta contains the variant ‫בארצם‬.

248 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es it originally belonged to the descendants of Shem – that is, to Israel – as in other rabbinic texts like the passages from Sifra and b. Sanhedrin quoted in the first part of this paper. It represents a distinct tradition. Moreover, the Tosefta contains a very strong affirmation: the Amorites ‫האמינו במקום‬, ‘believed (or: trusted) in God’. This laudatory description of the Amorites is very surprising.48 Again, it is probably to be explained by the need to make sense of the biblical expression ‫אֶרֶץ הָ אֱמ ֹרׅי‬, ‘the land of the Amorite’. However, when compared with the version in the Mekhilta, the testimony of the Tosefta makes particularly clear that the merit of the Canaanites who left and went to Africa was spiritual in nature: they trusted in God (‫ )האמינו במקום‬and were ready to leave their country, as did Abraham when he heard God’s command in Genesis 12:1: ‘Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.’ Moreover, of Abraham too it is said in Genesis 15:6 that he ‘trusted in God’ (‫)וְהֶאֱמִן בַּיהוָה‬.49 The concept of emunah is a crucial one in rabbinic literature, as shown for instance by a passage of the Mekhilta that quotes many of the biblical verses pertaining to emunah, including of course the one on Abraham’s faith in Genesis 15.50 Moreover, this passage associates emunah and merit or reward (the root ‫)זכה‬.51 Now in the passage of the Mekhilta on Exodus 13:11, the question raised is based on the idea that Canaan merited (‫ )זכה‬that the Land should be called by his name. For sure, in that context no explicit reference is made to the emunah of the Canaanites, but in the Tosefta the idea is clearly present. That the comparison between Abraham’s faith in God and that of the Canaanites/Amorites is not far-fetched is corroborated by the parallel text found in Talmud Yerushalmi Shevi‘it 6:1, 36c. There, we read:52 ‫יש' עד שלא יכנסו לארץ‬-‫ שלש פרסטיגיות שילח יהושע לארץ‬.‫דאמ' ר' שמואל בר נחמן‬ ‫ גרגשי פינה והאמין‬.‫מי שהוא רוצה להפנות יפנה להשלים ישלים לעשות מלחמה יעשה‬

48. Both H.Z. Hirschberg (A History of the Jews in North Africa, 40) and P. Alexander (The Toponymy of the Targumim, 95) characterize Simon ben Gamliel’s laudatory remarks as astonishing, but none of them pays attention to the issue of emunah. 49. And ‘he reckoned it to him as righteousness’ (‫)וַיַּּחְשְׁבֶהָ לּוֹ צְדָקָה‬. See also Epistle to the Hebrews 11:8. 50. See Mekhilta, Vayehi Beshallah 6, ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 114–15. I thank Adiel Schremer for pointing out this reference to me. 51. ...‫( שכן מצינו באבותינו שבשכר אמנה שהאמינו אבותינו בה׳ זכו ושרתה עליהם רוח הקודש‬ed. Horovitz-Rabin, 114). 52. Quotation according to ms Leiden.

t h e c a n a a n i t e s w h o ‘t r u s t e d i n g o d’ | 2 4 9 .‫לו להקב'ה והלך לו לאפריקי עד בואי ולקחתי אתכם אל ארץ כארצכם זו אפריקי‬ ‫ שלשים ואחד מלך עשו מלחמה‬.‫גבעונים השלימו וכי השלימו יושבי גבעון את ישראל‬ .‫ונפלו‬

Rabbi Shmuel bar Nahman said: Joshua sent a threefold decree (prostagma) to the land of Israel before entering the land. Whoever desired to leave the country (was free) to do so; whoever wished to make peace could do so; and whoever wished to wage war (was free) to do so. The Girgashite53 wandered forth, trusting in God, and went to Africa. ‘Until I come and take you away to a land like your own land’ (2 Kg. 18:32 or Is. 36:17): this is Africa. The Gibeonites made peace, (as it is said:) ‘… how the inhabitants of Gibeon had made peace with Israel …’ (Jos. 10:1). Thirty-one kings came out to fight and fell.

That this passage of the Yerushalmi relies on the tradition found in the Mekhilta and the Tosefta is shown by the name of the new country given to the Girgashite (Africa), the use of the verb ‫פינה‬, the reference to the Girgashite’s faith in God (Tos.: ‫ ;והאמינו במקום‬T.Y.: ‫)והאמין לו להקב'ה‬, as well as the reference to ‫ ארץ כארצכם‬in the biblical verse quoted as a proof-text. As mentioned above, this verse, no matter whether it comes from 2 Kings or from Isaiah, is the only one in the Hebrew Bible that contains the words ‫ארץ כארצכם‬. It is clear that within the Talmud Yerushalmi, the quotation from 2 Kings or Isaiah was introduced because one already knew the tradition found in the Mekhilta and the Tosefta, with ‫ כ‬and not with ‫ב‬. The fact that a biblical text which envisages an exile from home is applied to the Canaanites may be significant. Like the passage from the Tosefta, the text in the Talmud Yerushalmi seems to convey the idea that the Canaanites were the original inhabitants of the land, and its legitimate owners. Again, this point distinguishes this tradition from the one which considers that the land of Canaan originally belonged to the descendants of Shem, that is, to Israel. In contradistinction to the Mekhilta and the Tosefta, however, the passage in the Talmud Yerushalmi underlines the fact that the Canaanites who left the Land had other options. They could have stayed in the country by concluding 53. That the ‘Girgashite’ (rather than the ‘Canaanite’ or the ‘Amorite’) is presented in such a light in this context is probably to be explained by the fact that, whereas the Girgashite appears on the lists of the peoples of Canaan in several verses, the Girgashite is no longer mentioned in Deuteronomy 20:17 (the chapter on the laws of warfare) and subsequent passages such as Joshua 9:1 and 12:8, as if he had disappeared and was not involved in the wars waged by the children of Israel in Canaan. W. Bacher has already suggested this explanation in ‘The Supposed Inscription’, 354–5. See also H. Lewy, ‘Ein Rechtsstreit’, 178, with reference to Deut. R. 5.13 on Deut. 20:10f.

250 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s a peace treaty with the children of Israel, as the Gibeonites would do later on. But this option, which would simply reflect a desire to save one’s life and goods, is not praised. On the contrary, the choice made by the Girgashites is praised and linked to their faith in God (‫)והאמין לו להקב'ה‬. Moreover, in ‫והלך לו לאפריקי‬, the expression ‫ הלך לו‬is strongly reminiscent of the formula used in Genesis 12:1 and 22:2 in connection with Abraham, ָ‫לֶךְ־לְך‬. Even if this expression is common in rabbinic literature, here its use can hardly be a coincidence. Not only the wording, but also the story is similar: in both cases (that is, in Genesis and in the midrash), God asks a person or a people to leave their native country and, because they trust and obey God, they are granted a country somewhere else. Thus, in my opinion, the faith of the Girgashite is implicitly compared to that of Abraham.54 This is probably the most positive tradition about a Canaanite people to be found in Jewish literature from Antiquity. And the idea that the Canaanites could give the land voluntarily to the Hebrews is simply astonishing.55 For the sake of completeness, another text dated from roughly the same period as the Talmud Yerushalmi must be added to the discussion. According to Leviticus Rabba 17.6, Joshua indeed gave a choice to the Canaanite peoples, but the formulation differs slightly from that found in the Yerushalmi. In connection with Leviticus 14:34, where we read ‫כִּי תָבאוּ אֶל־אֶרֶץ כְּנַעַן‬, the midrash asks: ‫ אמ' ר' ישמעאל בר נחמן שלש‬56 ‫וכי מי בא ואמ' להם לכנענים שישראל באין לארצכם‬ ‫פרוזדיגמאות שילח יהושע בן נון אצלם הרוצה לפנות יפנה ולהשלים ישלים ולעשות‬ ‫ גרגשי פינה לפיכך נתנה לו ארץ יפה מארצו הה׳׳ד' עד באי ולקחתי‬.‫מלחמה יעשה‬ ‫ שלשים‬.‫ גבעונים השלימו וכי השלימו יושבי גבעון‬.‫אתכם אל ארץ כארצכם זה אפריקי‬ 57 .‫ואחד מלכים עשו מלחמה ונפלו‬

54. In the book of Genesis, the formula is used twice in connection with Abraham, at the two most crucial moments of his life (Gen. 12:1 and 22:2). 55. For sure, Rahab says to the Hebrew spies (Jos. 2:9): ‘I know that the Lord gave the land to you’, thereby acknowledging the divine will to give the land to the children of Israel. Moreover, in 2:11 she also says: ‘The Lord your God, he is God in heaven above, and on earth beneath.’ But on the other hand, the whole passage (2:9–11) insists on the Canaanites’ terror in front of Israel. As mentioned before, this is not the case in the texts from the Mekhilta, the Tosefta and the Talmud Yerushalmi, in which the Canaanites who depart are truly worthy, and do not leave the country simply out of fear. 56. In several manuscripts we read: ‫ לארצם‬or ‫אל ארצם‬. It is a matter of direct versus indirect speech. But the meaning remains the same: Israel is coming to the land of the Canaanites. 57. Leviticus Rabba 17.6, ed. Margulies, 2:385–386.

t h e c a n a a n i t e s w h o ‘t r u s t e d i n g o d’ | 251 Did anybody then go and announce to the Canaanites that Israel were coming into your [or: their] land? R. Ishmael b. Nahman said: Joshua had sent to them three proclamations: ‘Whoever wishes to leave, let him leave; whoever wishes to make peace, let him make peace; whoever wishes to wage war, let him wage war.’ The Girgashite wandered forth, and therefore a land more beautiful (even) than his own land was given to him, as it is written, ‘Until I come and take you away to a land like your own land’ (2 Kg. 18:32 or Is. 36:17): this is Africa. The Gibeonites made peace, (as it is said:) ‘… how the inhabitants of Gibeon had made peace …’ (Jos. 10:1). Thirty-one kings came out to fight and fell.

This text is slightly less positive in its assessment of the Canaanites than the preceding ones. First, contrary to both the Tosefta and the Talmud Yerushalmi, nothing is said about the faith of the Canaanites (Tos.: ‫האמינו‬ ‫ ;במקום‬T.Y.: ‫)והאמין לו להקב'ה‬. Second, the implicit allusion to Abraham contained in the Talmud Yerushalmi can no longer be found, although Leviticus Rabba shares with the Talmud Yerushalmi the quotation from 2 Kings or Isaiah. Even so, the fact remains that the Girgashites are cast in a positive light and represent an example of positive interaction between Israel and a foreign people (even if, obviously, it is rather an absence of interaction). To go back to the textual issue, mss ‫ ט‬and ‫ כ‬of Leviticus Rabba (which have ‫ )בארצו‬certainly attest a correction at some stage in the transmission of the text, maybe under the influence of the version found in some mss of the Mekhilta. In any case, it corroborates the conclusion that, at some point, two versions of the story developed in rabbinic literature. One tradition considered the Canaanites to have been the original inhabitants of the land; by their obedience to God’s will and their readiness to surrender the land to the children of Israel, they showed great faith and were thus comparable to Abraham. Their merit was such that God not only gave them a country as beautiful as Eretz Israel in Africa, but also decided to call the Land by their name (according to the Mekhilta and the Tosefta). Such a noteworthy reward makes sense in the original version of the story; less so in the other one, according to which the Canaanites stemmed from Africa and settled in the Land without having the right to do so. However, in this case as well, their willingness to depart when the children of Israel arrived from Egypt was to their credit. Finally, it must be recalled that the tradition about the Canaanites who left and were granted another land in Africa represents a minority opinion in rabbinic literature, no matter which version is given preference. Moreover,

25 2 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s within all the works quoted above, other perceptions of the Canaanites, which underline their wickedness or their opposition to God’s purposes, are present as well. This makes the existence of such a tradition all the more remarkable. Let us emphasize again that originally – according to both the Mekhilta and the Tosefta – the tradition about the Canaanites who left to Africa was devoid of polemical overtones; it contains no complaints and no accusations against Israel, and presents the Canaanites as obedient to God. Only at a later stage, in the Talmud Yerushalmi, Leviticus Rabba, etc., is this tradition associated with the other options offered to the Canaanites and integrated into a more complex and coherent narrative which reflects the biblical data more accurately. Noting the surprisingly positive nature of the passages from the Mekhilta and the Tosefta, Philip Alexander writes: ‘This is material from the early second century a d, and at this point of time the controversy [originating in the Hasmonean period] appears to be a distant rumble.’ 58 Still, this does not explain why one should describe the Canaanites as trusting in God and abandoning their land. The necessity to make sense of biblical verses or expressions such as ‘the Land of the Canaanite’ provides only part of the explanation. Beyond the exegetical endeavour concerning particular biblical verses, there seems to have existed in the mind of at least some of the Sages a real theological and ethical questioning about the issue of the gift of the Land and the fate of the autochtonous populations. This questioning may have emerged in connection with the more universalistic current Marc Hirshman has identified in Tannaitic literature,59 a current according to which faith in God was not inconceivable among non-Jews. It is important to note that the tradition about the faithful Canaanites who left and went to Africa is the only one – with the text from Sifra Qedoshim – that mentions God and has Him play an active role in the story. The other traditions, such as the one involving Alexander the Great, do not refer to God at all. It may be illuminating also to compare the tradition on the faithful Canaanites who left the Land with a quite distinct tradition found in particular in Tos. Sota 8.7 and bSota 35b,60 according to which the commandments of the Torah, 58. The Toponymy of the Targumim, 103. 59. See his ‫( תורה לכל באי העולם׃ זרם אוניברסלי בספרות התנאים ויחסו לחכמת העמים‬Tel Aviv: HaKibbutz HaMe’uchad, 1999); id., ‘Rabbinic Universalism in the Second and Third Centuries’, HTR 93/2 (2000): 101–15. 60. Referred to in a more detailed way in n.21 above. I give thanks to the anonymous reviewer who suggested bringing these texts into the discussion.

t h e c a n a a n i t e s w h o ‘t r u s t e d i n g o d’ | 253 including the condemnation of the Canaanites’s abominations, were made known to the nations. This implied that the Canaanites knew God’s will and had the possibility to repent; and if they had repented they would not have been destroyed. In these texts God is involved, insofar as He inspires the nations to send scribes to copy the words of the Torah in their own languages. Moreover, this tradition is connected with the debate on the universality of the Torah analysed by Marc Hirshman.61 In the end, however, two differences are striking: first, the Canaanites who left the Land apparently did so before Israel entered the Land, that is, before the episode of the writing of the Law on the stones of the altar could even happen. The Canaanites who left seem to have known God’s will through some kind of independent order or revelation they received from God. Second, they obeyed the command they had received, whereas the nations in Tos. Sota 8.7 and bSota 35b (as well as in ySota 7.5, 21d) ultimately rejected God’s commandments written in the Torah. As far as the nations’ ability to receive God’s will is concerned, the conclusions of the two stories are quite opposite. However, both the tradition in Tos. Sota 8.7 and bSota 35b and the tradition about the Canaanites who left the Land make clear that obedience to God could modify the fate of the Canaanites in a radical way. All in all, it remains difficult to formulate more than hypothetical guesses about the historical context in which the positive tradition about the Canaanites who left the Land developped, but it looks decidedly Tannaitic. In any case, my conclusion is that in contradistinction to other traditions found in rabbinic literature, the positive tradition about the Canaanites did not develop only or primarily in the context of a polemical debate about the identity of the legitimate owners of the Land, but stemmed from Jewish inner theological and ethical debates about the revelation of God’s will and God’s laws to humankind at large, and their acceptance or their rejection by the nations. The exceptionally positive character of the tradition about the Canaanites who trusted in God is all the more striking when compared to a passage from Philo’s Hypothetica that presents both similarities and dissimilarities with the rabbinic texts examined so far.

61. See ‫תורה לכל באי העולם‬, 108–13.

25 4 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s Philo’s Hypothetica: a similar idea with a different apologetic purpose? In the Hypothetica, one of his most clearly apologetic works,62 Philo tries to defend Moses against people who accuse him of having been a γόης (a magician, a charlatan) and a κέρκωψ (a mischievous or deceitful fellow).63 To show how absurd these accusations are, Philo affirms that the Hebrews followed Moses for forty years without ever rebelling against him (6.3). This is of course a very personal and original reading of the events described in the Bible, since it mentions several instances of rebellion against Moses, which were precisely due to thirst, hunger, or fear.64 What Philo writes therefore stands in opposition to the literal meaning of the biblical account. After having summarized the events of the exodus, Philo then adds: 5. So much for the story of the migration. But when they came to this land the holy records show clearly how they established themselves there and occupied the country. Yet in examining the probable facts (of this occupation), I think it better to go not so much by the historical narrative (καθ᾿ ἱστορίαν) as by what a certain reasoning (κατά τινα λογισμὸν) tells us about them. 6. Which alternative do you prefer? Were they still superior in the number of their fighting men though they had fared so ill to the end, still strong and with weapons in their hand, and did they then take the land by force, defeating the combined Syrians and Phoenicians65 who were fighting in their own country? Or shall we suppose that they were unwarlike and feeble, quite few in numbers 62. On the Hypothetica, see J. Bernays, ‘Philons Hypothetika und die Verwünschungen des Buzyges in Athen’, in Gesammelte Abhandlungen (Berlin: W. Hertz, 1885), 1:262–82; M. Petit, ‘À propos d’une traversée exemplaire du désert du Sinaï selon Philon (Hypot. VI, 2–3.8): texte biblique et apologétique concernant Moïse chez quelques écrivains juifs’, Semitica 26 [1976]: 137–142; B. Motzo, ‘Le ΥΠΟΘΕΤΙΚΑ di Filone’, in Ricerche sulla letteratura e la storia giudaico-ellenistica (Rome: Centro Editoriale Internazionale, 1977), 581–598, esp. 589–590; G. E. Sterling, ‘Philo and the Logic of Apologetics: An Analysis of the Hypothetica’, SBL 1990 Seminar Papers (ed. D.J. Lull; Atlanta: Scholar Press, 1990), 412–30; B. Schaller, ‘Philon von Alexandreia und das “Heilige Land”’, in Fundamenta Judaica. Studien zum antiken Judentum and zum Neuen Testament (ed. L. Doering and A. Steudel; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2001), 24–5; K. Berthelot, Philanthrôpia judaica. Le débat autour de la ‘misanthropie’ des lois juives dans l’Antiquité (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 301–14. Recently John Barclay has argued that the Hypothetica should not be attributed to Philo (see his Flavius Josephus, Against Apion. Translation and Commentary, Leiden: Brill, 2007, 353–5). This is not the place to discuss this thesis. In any case, the Hypothetica are a Jewish Hellenistic text dating no later than the first century CE . 63. Eusebius, Praep. Ev. 8.6.2 (Hypoth. 6.2). Josephus also tries to refute the accusation of γοητεία (Against Apion 2.145). 64. See, for instance, Exod. 15:23–24; 16:2–3; 17:1–4; 32:1; Num. 11:1–15; 14:1–4.10; 16; etc. 65. That Philo uses the term ‘Phoenicians’ for Canaanites is understandable, since the LXX already translates ‘Canaan’ by ‘Phoenicia’ a few times; see note 14. Pseudo-Eupolemus also calls the Canaanites ‘Phoenicians’ (see Eusebius, Praep. Ev. 9.17.4). Cf. H. Lewy, ‘Ein Rechtsstreit’, 93. The ‘Syrians’ were simply associated with the Phoenicians because of the geographical and historical connections between the two areas; see for instance Philo, Mos. 1.163 (where, however, he distinguishes

t h e c a n a a n i t e s w h o ‘t r u s t e d i n g o d’ | 255 and destitute of warlike equipment, but won the respect of their opponents who voluntarily surrendered their land to them (αἰδέσεως δὲ τυχεῖν παρὰ τούτοις καὶ τὴν γῆν λαβεῖν παρ᾿ ἑκόντων) and that as a direct consequence they shortly afterwards built their temple and established everything else needed for religion and worship? 7. This would clearly show that they were acknowledged as dearly beloved of God even by their enemies. For those whose land they suddenly invaded with the intention of taking it from them were necessarily their enemies. (Colson, LCL, 419–421, slightly modified)

Philo’s question to his reader is rhetorical, and he obviously considers the second solution more likely.66 In other passages of his work, he similarly asks a rhetorical question when he wishes to dismiss the literal meaning and to move on to the allegorical one. In the Hypothetica, however, the rejection of the literal meaning is not followed by an allegorical reading, but rather by ‘a certain reasoning’ that implies a rational and critical appreciation of the biblical account. There is no other occurrence of the word λογισμός in the Hypothetica, but its meaning in Philo’s work in general is without ambiguity: it refers to a rational type of thought or reasoning, and sometimes to the rational faculty itself.67 This rational and critical approach to the biblical narrative is opposed to its literal interpretation, characterized as ἱστορία. Interestingly enough, nowhere else in Philo’s work is the term ἱστορία used in connection with a biblical text. For sure, in Praem. 1–2 and Mos. 2.46–47, the adjective ἱστορικός is used to designate a category of biblical discourse, the ‘historical’ section of the Pentateuch corresponding for instance to the period of the patriarchs. However, Philo generally tends to distinguish, and even to oppose, ἱστορία and Scripture. The reason for this probably lies in the fact that ἱστορία often refers to a kind of knowledge acquired through investigation,68 an endeavour too human to allow the same expression to designate Scripture adequately. In several passages in Philo’s work, the term ἱστορία refers to Phoenicia and Syria from Canaan, called Παλαιστίνη), Legat. 281; Josephus, Ant. 7.74; 9.283; 11.21–7, 138; 12.154, 175; 13.65; Against Apion 1.133, 135, 143; etc. 66. I slightly disagree here with G.E. Sterling (‘Philo and the Logic of Apologetics’), who sees in this passage of the Hypothetica an example of hypothetical syllogism with an inclusive disjunction, as in Stoic logic. In my opinion, one should rather speak of an exclusive disjunction, since the two versions of the story of the conquest are mutually exclusive. Moreover, in my view we are dealing with an hermeneutical debate rather than with a logical one, although the two possibilities are not exclusive in this case! 67. See for instance Sacrif. 105. 68. For an example of the use of the term with this meaning in Philo’s work, see Somn. 2.302.

256 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s a subsection under the heading ‘grammar’.69 It is generally associated with the stories about the past told by Greek poets and writers70 and with literal interpretation. Sometimes, ἱστορία (referring to Greek literary works) and the literal meaning it conveys are set over and against the Holy Scriptures and the allegorical or philosophical interpretation they require. Alternately, it may also serve to oppose the literal meaning of a biblical verse to its allegorical interpretation.71 In Spec. 2.146, after having summarized the story of the Exodus and explained the reasons for the sacrifice of the paschal lamb according to the literal meaning of the biblical text, Philo adds: ταῦτα μὲν κατὰ παλαιὰν ἀρχαιολογίαν ἱστορεῖται, ‘These are the facts as discovered by the study of ancient history’ (LCL, Colson, 307). As in the Hypothetica, the verb ἱστορέω is linked here with a literal interpretation of Scripture.72 Philo refers afterwards to the allegorical meaning of these events and rituals – the purification of the soul – according to some ‘who are accustomed to turn literal facts into allegory’ (§147). But he does not undermine the literal interpretation of the Exodus narrative for all that; he simply juxtaposes the two levels of interpretation. On the contrary, in the Hypothetica he suggests that the literal meaning should be set aside. Now, how is the ‘respect’ shown by the Canaanites to the Hebrews (αἴδεσις, in Hypot. 6) to be understood? Is it a kind of reverent fear, resulting from the Hebrews’ first victories against their enemies in the desert? This interpretation certainly has a good biblical basis. But if one takes Philo’s argument seriously, it is doubtful that he had the military victories of the book of Numbers in mind,73 because his rational criticism could equally apply to them. Further, §6 states that the natives ‘voluntarily surrendered the land’ to the Hebrews, which sounds too positive for fear to be meant. Alternatively, if one understands αἴδεσις as ‘compassion’, the sentence could mean that God inspired the Canaanites to pity the wandering Hebrews and give them an hospitable welcome. But in §7, Philo writes that the Hebrews ‘were acknowledged as dearly beloved of God’ by the indigenous population, 69. See Cher. 105; Congr. 15, 74; Somn. 1:205. See A. Kamesar, ‘Philo, Grammatikè and the Narrative Aggada’, in Pursuing the Text. Studies in Honor of Ben Zion Wacholder on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday (ed. J.C. Reeves and J. Kampen; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), 216–42. 70. In some cases, such as Congr. 15, the suggestion may be made that Philo had Homer and Herodotus in mind. 71. See for instance Congr. 44 and Somn. 1.52. 72. See also Mos. 2.59 and 143. 73. See for example Num. 21:1–3.21–35.

t h e c a n a a n i t e s w h o ‘t r u s t e d i n g o d’ | 25 7 and, in §8, he adds that the former got ‘respect and honour’ (αἴδεσις and τιμή) from the latter. Therefore, the word αἴδεσις should rather be interpreted as connoting ‘admiration’, implying that the Canaanites somehow recognized the election of Israel and the superior wisdom of the Mosaic laws. It could even mean that they adopted the Israelites’ beliefs and way of life, although Philo is not explicit enough for this point to be clarified. This interpretation may be corroborated by a passage from the Quaestiones in Exodum (2.22) in which Philo comments on Exodus 23:27b, and tries to answer the question: ‘What is the meaning of the words, “I will terrify all the nations into which you will come”?’ The (expression) ‘I will terrify’ in the literal sense is equivalent to ‘I will strike with fear’, which He earlier spoke of sending down for the destruction of their adversaries’ force, for fear is the cause of weakness. In the second place, He seems to bear testimony to the surpassing virtue of the nation in that it would convert not only its own (members) but also its enemies; and by ‘enemies’ I mean not only those who commit acts of war but also those who are heterodox. (Marcus, LCL, 61)

In this passage Philo is still dealing with the literal meaning of the verse. Only later on does he discuss its ‘deeper meaning’. Although the literal meaning of the expression ‘I will terrify’ seems plain, Philo interprets it in two different ways. Not only will God inspire fear in the enemies of Israel, but the virtue of the people of God will be acknowledged even by them, who will be ‘converted’. The exact significance of this ‘conversion’ is far from clear. Will they be convinced of the superiority of the Mosaic constitution? Will they ask to join the people of Israel? Or simply repent their hostility towards them? The text does not provide a clear answer to these questions. But the first possibility is highly probable, since Philo extends the significance of the biblical text to a more general situation, that of people who will abandon their foreign opinions or beliefs once they have been convinced of the truth of the religion of Israel. This elliptical passage becomes more significant when compared to Hypoth. 6.5–7, which it seems to foreshadow. Moreover, it confirms the interpretation of ‘respect’ in Hypoth. 6.6 as a kind of admiration, implying roughly that the Canaanites recognized the election of Israel and the truth of the Mosaic laws, and possibly adopted the Israelites’ way of life. The Hypothetica thus share with the rabbinic texts analysed above the idea that the Canaanites (or at least some of them) voluntarily surrendered their

258 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s land to the Hebrews because they recognized the election of the children of Israel or the revelation granted to them by God, and not because they were afraid and prefered to flee rather than to be defeated and killed. However, Philo’s intended audience – which in the case of the Hypothetica certainly included non-Jews – and his apologetic purposes greatly differed from that of the Sages. As stated above, in section 6 of the Hypothetica Philo was particularly concerned to defend Moses against people – most probably non-Jews – who accused him of having been a magician and a deceitful fellow (6.2). Philo’s defense of Moses starts at the beginning of section 6.2 and ends with 6.9. The story of the conquest is an integral part of the section showing that Moses was a great leader who was divinely inspired and who gave to the Jews pious and just laws which made them dear to God and admired by other people. After the passage on the settlement in the Land, Philo goes back to the theme of the unity between the people and Moses which he had already tackled in 6.3–4: ‘so great was their veneration for that man who gave them their laws, whatever view we take of him, that anything which approved itself to him approved itself also to them’ (6.8).74 Then Philo concludes that no matter whether one considers Moses to have been divinely inspired or not, the fact remains that the Jews hold his Law as coming from God and are still ready to die rather than to transgress the commandments ordained by Moses, even in Philo’s days (6.9). Thus, the passage on the settlement of the children of Israel in the Land is part of a coherent demonstration in which Philo shows that no matter whether one believes in the divine inspiration of Moses or not, he was a great lawgiver immensely respected not only by his people, but also by those who were supposed to be their enemies! In short, the idea that the Canaanites voluntarily surrendered their land to the Hebrews because they recognized that the latter were beloved of God is part of Philo’s apology of Moses and his laws. For sure, the non-violent character of the Hebrews’ settlement in the land may also have served Philo’s apologetic endeavour to answer charges of misanthrôpia against the Jews.75 However, I do not think that this was what he had in mind first and foremost in this passage. Neither does 74. Transl. F.H. Colson, LCL, 421. 75. On Philo’s apology of Mosaic philanthrôpia, see K. Berthelot, Philanthrôpia judaica, 265–300, 306–14. B.  Schaller only cautiously considers the possibility that Philo was reacting to criticism against the Hebrew conquest of the Land (see ‘Philon von Alexandreia’, 19).

t h e c a n a a n i t e s w h o ‘t r u s t e d i n g o d’ | 259 he seem to have been particularly concerned to prove that the Jews were the legitimate owners of the Land. Finally, the merits or the virtues of the autochtonous populations are of no concern to Philo, who does not present the Canaanites as having faith in God, but only as having been full of respect or admiration for the newcomers. The emphasis is radically different than in the rabbinic texts.

Conclusion According to the preserved sources at our disposal, and insofar as one can date them precisely, Philo seems to have been the first Jewish exegete to question the literal meaning of the biblical account of the conquest and to propose a different historical scenario.76 His version of the story can, to a certain extent, be compared with that of the rabbinic texts presented above, which also suggest that the Canaanites (or at least some of them) freely surrendered the land to the Hebrews. On the other hand, this rabbinic tradition must be clearly distinguished from the story told in Procopius’ History of the Wars, according to which the Canaanites were afraid of Joshua and his troops, fled away in order to avoid waging war and remained resentful about their forced departure. To the best of my knowledge, Philo’s Hypothetica and the passages in the Mekhilta, the Tosefta, the Talmud Yerushalmi and Leviticus Rabba77 are the only attestations of this idea in Jewish literature from the Hellenistic and Roman period. However, in my opinion the rabbinic texts do not depend on Philo at all; neither do Philo and the Sages depend on a common tradition. As a matter of fact, Philo’s reasoning and hermeneutical approach differ significantly from that of the Sages. Whilst they and he freely modify the 76. The only text before Philo to which the Hypothetica can be compared is the fragment from Demetrius’ writings (third century B CE ?) quoted by Eusebius (Praep. Ev. 9.29.16), in which he asks how the Israelites obtained weapons with which to fight against their enemies in the desert after the Exodus (see C.R. Holladay [ed. and trans.], Fragments from Hellenistic Jewish Authors, vol.1: Historians, Chico: Scholars Press, 1983, 51–91, esp. 76–7). This question presupposes a rational and critical approach comparable to that of Philo in Hypoth. 6.6. 77. Deuteronomy Rabba (5.14) tells the same story as the Talmud Yerushalmi and Leviticus Rabba, using the formula ‫ ;פינה והלך לו‬Numbers Rabba (17.3) recalls the departure of the Canaanites for Africa. But both works are late (see H.L. Strack and G. Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash, 2nd ed.; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1996, 308 and 310–11). If, however, Deuteronomy Rabba was to be dated to the fifth century CE , it would represent another testimony (from the same period) to the tradition found in the Talmud Yerushalmi. Tanhuma, Bo 12 (ed. Warshaw) tells the same story as the Mekhilta; but its date is probably late as well.

260 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es biblical account, the Sages do so because of particular expressions and omissions in the biblical text, whereas Philo contrasts the literal meaning with a rational and critical analysis of the biblical narrative. Moreover, Philo’s historical context and apologetic motives greatly differentiate the Hypothetica from the rabbinic texts, whose historical backgrounds are also more difficult to appraise. According to what is left of the Hypothetica, in the section under consideration Philo was first and foremost trying to defend Moses, his mission and his authority as the inspired lawgiver through whom Revelation was given to the children of Israel. Philo does not seem to have been particularly concerned to prove that the Jews were the legitimate owners of the land. On the contrary, the story in the Mekhilta and the Tosefta directly addresses the issue of the name of the land and of Canaanite ownership. The Tannaitic texts are much more concerned with the legal and ethical issues linked to the conquest than the Hypothetica. On the other hand, the accounts in the Mekhilta and the Tosefta are not polemical, whereas the more elaborate version found in the Talmud Yerushalmi and Leviticus Rabba does refer to the conflict over the Land, not to mention other rabbinic texts such as b. Sanhedrin 91a which explicitly describe a polemic. However, in these texts the charges are directed against the Jewish people and not against Moses as in Philo’s Hypothetica. Another important difference between the Hypothetica and the rabbinic texts lies in the fact that Philo does not present the autochtonous populations as having done something commendable and does not praise them for their faith or their goodwill towards their invaders. This is congruent with his apologetic focus on Moses. The Canaanites themselves were not Philo’s concern. When compared with Philo’s account, the rabbinic texts that acknowledge the Canaanites’ faith in God and even implicitly compare them with Abraham appear all the more striking. Finally, one last point must be underlined: in the Hypothetica, Philo’s interest exceptionally lies in the actual facts of the past, in history as understood nowadays, not in the allegorical meaning of the text; whereas the rabbinic texts display a lack of interest in history and have a rather moral-theological agenda.78 The tradition found in the Tosefta and the Mekhilta reflects the 78. As rightly underlined by Ch. Milikowski, in a different context, in his article ‘Rabbinic Interpretation of the Bible in the Light of Ancient Hermeneutical Practice. The Question of the Literal Meaning’, in ‘The Words of a Wise Man’s Mouth are Gracious’ (Qoh 10, 12). Festschrift for Günter

t h e c a n a a n i t e s w h o ‘t r u s t e d i n g o d’ | 2 61 thoughts of the Sages – or their fantasies – about a category of Gentiles who, without necessarily converting to Judaism, nevertheless acknowledged the God of Israel, the election of the Jewish people and its right to the Land.79 Ultimately, what Philo and the rabbinic tradition analysed here have in common is the idea that non-Jews could accept God’s sovereignty and the election of Israel. For Philo, who thought that Mosaic laws could be grasped by non-Jews rationally, this was in a way an obvious possibility. In the rabbinic texts, conversely, the faith of some of the Canaanites clearly constitutes an exceptional phenomenon. Together with other rabbinic texts dealing with righteous Gentiles on the one hand and with God’s original intention to reveal the Torah to humankind at large on the other, the tradition about the Canaanites who trusted in God contributes to shed light on theological debates in rabbinic circles concerning the ability of non-Jews to receive God’s will and to obey God’s commands, and concerning the way God relates to righteous non-Jewish individuals or peoples.

Stemberger on the Occasion of his 65th Birthday (ed. M. Perani; Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 2005), 7–28. Milikowski convincingly argues that ‘the unrestrained freedom found in midrashic literature to create new elements of story’ is linked to ‘the essence of the midrashic enterprise, which posits a crucial distinction between a scrutiny of the text oriented towards the factual and the historical and a scrutiny of the text oriented towards the theological and the moral’ (27). 79. Here one may think of the existence of God-fearers and what rabbinic texts say about them. But the Girgashites or Canaanites who left and went to Africa did not stay in touch with the children of Israel, whereas God-fearers are generally linked to Jews in one way or another; they sometimes contribute financially to the needs of a local community, a synagogue, etc. Moreover, God-fearers have no particular connection with the land, even less so a right to the land. Therefore the case of the Canaanites remains a specific one, even if it raises questions that have more general implications as far as perceptions of non-Jews in rabbinic texts are concerned.

j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s   |   v o l .   l x i 1   |   n o .   2   |   a u t u m n 2 011

Archaeological remains of the Bar Kokhba Revolt in the Te’omim Cave (Mu˘ghâret Umm et Tûeimîn), Western Jerusalem Hills B o a z Z i s s u , R o’i P o r a t , Boa z L a ngfor d & A mos Frum k i n B a r - I l a n U n i v e r s i t y a n d H e b r e w U n i v e r s i t y, J e r u s a l e m

In loving memory of our friend, teacher and colleague Professor Hanan Eshel z”l. a b s t r ac t  The Te’omim Cave is a large natural cave, located in the Jerusalem hills. The article presents the results of an archaeological survey in the hard-to-reach section of the cave. Archaeological finds, as hoards of coins, weapons, fragmentary human bones, pottery and oil lamps from the time of the Bar Kokhba Revolt were discovered in situ. The finds attest that the cave served as the last place of refuge for rebels who met there their death. The highlights of the survey were three hoards of coins. ‘Hoard A’ included 83 silver coins restruck by the Bar Kokhba administration. It is the only hoard of silver Bar Kokhba coins discovered thus far by archaeologists. ‘Hoard B’ included nine silver coins and a bronze perutah. ‘Hoard C’ included five Roman gold coins, 15 silver coins and four Roman bronze coins of Ascalon. The article discusses various numismatic and archaeological aspects of the finds.

T

h e T e’om i m C av e is a karst (natural) cave located on the northern bank of Nahal Hameʽara, on the western edge of the Jerusalem hills (see location map).1 This article will present the results of an archaeological survey which focused on the hard-to-reach inner section, where archaeological finds from the time of the Bar Kokhba Revolt were discovered.2 1. The cave is situated at coordinates 152049/126028, about 1.5 km east of the juncture of Nahal Hameʽara and Nahal Zanoah. Nahal Zanoah flows through this section of the Telem (known also as the Marzeva – or ‘Gutter’ Valley). This is the natural boundary between the Judean Hills and the Judean Shephelah. 2. The survey was carried out by the authors (permit S-133/2009) during 2009, on behalf of the Department of Land of Israel Studies and Archaeology at Bar-Ilan University together with the Cave Research Unit at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, with assistance from the Israel Nature and Parks Authority (INPA) and the Jeselsohn Epigraphic Center of Jewish History at Bar-Ilan University. Vladimir Buslov, Mika Ullman, Uri Davidovich, and Jonathan Goldsmith took part.

R e m a i n s o f t h e B a r K o k h b a R e v o lt | 2 63 Research history The cave was named Mŭghâret Umm et Tûeimîn – ‘the cave of the mother of twins’ – by local residents of the region in the nineteenth century.3 The first comprehensive study of the cave was carried out by C.R. Conder and H.H. Kitchener on 17 October 1873; their report included a verbal description and a fairly detailed map.4 At the northern tip of the cave the explorers encountered a deep pit, which they described as follows: The second gallery, entered behind a sort of screen of stalagmite, is 80 feet long, and some 20 feet wide. At the further end is a pit some 60 feet deep and 15 feet across; for 20 feet there is a steep slope; for 40 feet the sides of the pit are sheer.

The explorers did not descend into the pit; nor did they notice the continuation of the cave north of point E (see figs 1 and 2). Their description of the cave provides information about traditions and customs of the local fellahin, who attributed healing properties to the spring water that flowed in the cave.5 The fellahin even told the surveyors a story about throwing unfaithful wives into the pit.6 In the late 1920s, René Neuville, the French consul in Jerusalem, excavated the bottom of the main hall and found ceramic, wooden, and stone vessels. The coins and metal objects were cleaned by Marina Rassovsky in the Israel Museum laboratories. The pottery was restored by Andrei Wainer of the Israel Museum laboratories. We are grateful to Dr. Zvika Tsuk, Menachem Fried, and On Valensi of the INPA, and to Dr. Zvi Greenhut of the Israel Antiquities Authority, for their help. Dudi Mevorach, Daniel Ein-Mor, Yinon Shivtiel, Amos Kloner, Guy D. Stiebel, Deborah Stern and Nili Graicer also provided assistance. The archaeological assemblage found in this survey in the main hall of the cave will be described elsewhere. 3. This name was documented by the Survey of Western Palestine: H. C. Stewardson, The Survey of Western Palestine, A General Index (London, 1888), p. 129. 4. See C. R. Conder and H. H. Kitchener, The Survey of Western Palestine: Memoirs, vol. 3: Judaea, London (1883), pp. 148–149; Victor Guérin visited the region and reported briefly on the existence of ‘a fairly large cave, partly filled with water’, in the wall of Wadi el-Maghara (Nahal Hameʽara), but it doesn’t seem that he visited the cave: V. Guérin, Description Géographique, Historique et Archéologique de la Palestine, Judee, III (Paris, 1869), p. 322. 5. Regarding the special qualities of the spring water, the British explorers briefly mentioned: ‘The water is supposed to have certain medicinal qualities.’ A legend that ‘a barren woman drank the water dripping into a niche from the cave ceiling and had twins; hence the name of the cave’ is reported by Zev Vilnay, ‘Me‘arat Ha’Teomim’, in: Z. Vilnay, Ariel, An Encyclopaedia for the Study of the Land of Israel (Tel-Aviv 1978; Hebrew), col. 4580. A version of the legend is mentioned by Menahem Marcus, Jerusalem Hills, A Landscape Survey and Trails (Jerusalem, 1993; Hebrew), p. 144, site 130: ‘The name Te’omim Cave comes from the legend that the spring water deep inside the cave not only causes pregnancy in barren women who drink it, but gives them twins.’ 6. Conder and Kitchener, The Survey, p. 149 (as in no. 4 above) reported: ‘This pit is used by the neighbouring peasantry for the execution of women charged with immorality, who are thrown down it.’

264 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es

F i g. 1  Plan of cave (B. Langford and M. Ullman)

R e m a i n s o f t h e B a r K o k h b a R e v o lt | 2 6 5

F i g. 2  Cross-sections of cave (B. Langford and M. Ullman)

The finds were dated to the following periods: Neolithic, Chalcolithic (Ghassulian), Early Bronze I(?), Middle Bronze II(?), Iron, Roman, and Byzantine. Neuville concluded that the debris on the cave floor had piled up in prehistoric times, before the Neolithic period. 7 From 1970 to 1974, the cave was studied by Gideon Mann on behalf of the Society for the Protection of Nature in Israel. Mann focused on mapping cavities beneath the big pile of debris in the hall and examining the large pit (point E in fig. 1). In the wall of the pit he found passages leading to halls F and G. Mann mapped the section and discovered various items, including ceramic and glass vessels.8 7. See R. Neuville, ‘Notes de préhistoire palestinienne: La grotte d’et-Taouamin’ JPOS 10 (1930), p. 65. We are grateful to Uri Davidovich, who referred us to this publication and assisted us analyse the findings of Neuville’s excavations. 8. See G. Mann, ‘On a Rope – Into the Pit of Me‘arat Ha’Teomim’, Teva Va-Aretz 20 (1978), pp. 161–4 (Hebrew). Mann mentioned that the inner complex of halls [i.e., halls F and G and passages J and K] is full of rocks and dirt. Numerous potsherds were found in tunnels leading from the deep pit to this inner system. These vessels were identified in the 1970s by Amos Kloner as typical storage jars from the Byzantine period – apparently the sixth century c e . Also found was a ceramic lamp typical of the Late Byzantine period and a fragmentary glass vessel. Mann mentioned that additional material seems to be buried in the tunnels, and even more so in subsequent parts of the cave, underneath the debris of rocks and dirt. In the new survey of Section E–F–G, all the finds

266 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es Description of the cave The cave entrance is located about 4 metres above the channel of the wadi. The natural opening was widened by hewing into the cavity that serves as an entrance and vestibule; from there one descends northward into the interior of the cave. At the front of the cave is a spacious hall (measuring approximately 50 × 70 metres, with a maximum height today of about 10 metres) created by karst dissolution processes in limestone of the Weradim formation. Most of the area of the hall is covered with a huge pile of rocks originating in a collapse of the ceiling; on the rocks is an accumulation of soil, pigeon droppings, and bat guano. Stalactites and stalagmites have formed at various spots in the cave. Several passages within the pile of rocks lead under the rubble. The cave was formed in massive Cenomanian dolomite of the Weradim formation, on the western flexure of the Ramallah anticline. The strata are tilted 22 degrees to the west. Similar caves in similar geological settings are known north of the Te’omim Cave, on the lower slopes of Nahal Soreq (the Soreq and Shimshon caves). The morphology of the cave (smooth walls and ceiling, solution domes) attests that it formed as a completely enclosed hypogenic cave (not open to the surface) beneath groundwater level.9 Water apparently rose from a great depth through the large pit (E) and spread from the top of it in two directions, towards the entrance hall and towards the inner, ‘refuge’ section. The rocks in the debris, smoothed by dissolution, indicate that a massive collapse occurred when the hall was still filled with groundwater. Large stalagmites on top of the debris also attest to the antiquity of the debris. The groundwater all drained out of the cave following the uplift of the Judean Hills, after which speleothems (chemical sediments) deposition began, mostly in the entrance hall. The cave was opened to the surface when Nahal Hameʽara cut through the hall on its southwestern edge. The absence of archaeological finds predating the Neolithic period suggests that the opening formed at the end of the Pleistocene or that the cave entrance was initially vertical, preventing people from getting in. discovered were typical to the first third of the second century c e – the time of the Bar Kokhba Revolt. It may be that Kloner was brought pottery from other parts of the cave as well, where there are numerous Byzantine-period vessels. Moreover, the Byzantine-period dating could be wrong due to lack of familiarity in the early 1970s with ceramic types from the second century c e . We extend our thanks to Kloner, with whom we consulted on this issue. 9. A. Frumkin and I. Fischhendler, ‘Morphometry and Distribution of Isolated Caves as a Guide for Phreatic and Confined Paleohydrological Conditions’, Geomorphology 67 (2005), pp. 457–71.

R e m a i n s o f t h e B a r K o k h b a R e v o lt | 2 6 7 In the southeastern corner of the hall, a small karst cavity was found that had been enlarged by hewing (C). Its floor is higher than the present-day floor of the hall, and it contains cave sediments. A square pool (2 × 2 metres, 0.5 m deep) was hewn in the hall, and water drips into it from speleothems. The water then flows out through a rock-cut canal leading westward. Today the water is absorbed by the ground, but in the past it collected in a built, lower pool.10 From point C northward, the eastern wall of the cave was straightened by hewing for a total length of 18 metres and a maximum height of 4 metres. A channel hewn in this wall carried water to the upper pool, but it was sealed over time by speleothem deposits. Additional channels a few metres long and 5–10 cm wide and deep were hewn in various spots in the entrance hall (marked with a double line on the cave map) to collect the dripping water in pools or storage vessels. On the northern side of the hall, among the stalagmites and columns, an easily traversed path leads to passage D, a wide, high passage leading northward.11 About 20 metres to the north, the passage is blocked by a deep karstic pit/shaft (E); the diameter of the shaft ranges from 4 metres at the top to 6 metres at the bottom. Its floor is about 15 metres below the floor of passage D, its upper part forming a dome about 3 metres above the ceiling of the passage. The height difference between the ceiling and bottom of the shaft reaches 23 metres. On the northern side of pit E, a little lower than floor level of passage D, there are three narrow, hard-to-reach openings; to get to them one has to cross the pit secured by a rope (fig. 3). People looking today from passage D to the northern wall of the pit will not discern the two openings in front of them (leading to passages K and L).12 The entrance to passage J is hidden from the eye because of the shape of the pit wall. Pottery vessels (described in appendix 1 and figs 12–15) were discovered in all three of these passages: large fragments of four or five storage jars were found in passage J (b. 108; 10. Conder and Kitchener, The Survey, p. 148 (as in no. 4 above), note that the lower pool was filled up; they marked it on their plan. The remains of this pool could still be seen in the early 1970s, See: Mann, ‘On a Rope’ (as in no. 8 above), p. 162: ‘At the bottom of the slope the remains of construction of another ruined pool are clearly visible’. 11. Ceramic oil-lamps and coins from the Late Roman period were found in this area and will be published in the future. 12. Even with modern lighting, the openings are invisible. Perhaps the people hiding in the cave in ancient times knew this. This fact, combined with the difficulty of access, kept the inner halls (F and G) safe from antiquities looters.

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f i g . 3   Crossing the karst shaft (E), view to the north (photo: B. Zissu)

fig. 12); fragments of two storage jars (b. 110/1), a cooking pot (b. 110/2), and a ‘round Roman’ lamp (b. 504) were found in passage K. North of the three openings is a narrow, winding karst passage with two levels that leads to halls F and G. Fragments of a storage jar (b. 109) were found in the entrance to hall G, and remains of charcoal were discovered in several spots along these passages. One of the stones in this area has a greenish stain on it, perhaps from corrosion of coins (or other bronze artifacts) that were once there but decayed over time. Halls F and G have an elongated shape and are oriented from south to north. Access from hall F to hall G is through a wide passage whose floor slants to the northeast and is covered with rubble, mud and bat guano. Hall F is oval-shaped (maximum length 19 metres, maximum width 8 metres). It is more humid in the centre and contains active cave deposits, as well as dripping water that could be stored for later use by people in the cave. The southern edges of hall F, near the openings of the passages leading into it, are slightly higher than its centre; they are also dryer, and the dryness helped preserve the archaeological finds in this part of the cave. Large fragments of two or three storage jars (b. 100 and 101) were found on the southern edge of the chamber, and nearby, inside a hole in the rock, a group of coins were found in situ (Hoard A; figs 4 and 5). They included 83 silver

R e m a i n s o f t h e B a r K o k h b a R e v o lt | 2 6 9 coins restruck by the Bar Kokhba administration and a fragment of silver jewelry (A85). These coins were found stuck together, apparently because they had been kept in a pocket or case made of some organic material that did not survive. The coins show little signs of wear. Nearby, on a fragment of a storage jar lying on the surface, a bronze coin of the city of Ashkelon from the days of Hadrian was discovered. About two metres north of there, fragments of a storage jar (b. 102), fragments of a Judean (‘Darom’) oil lamp (b. 505), and the lower portion of a candlestick-shaped glass bottle (b. 103) were found. Next to them, in a crack between fallen ceiling rocks, another group of ten coins (Hoard B; nine silver coins and a bronze perutah; figs 6 and 7) – six Roman and four Judean (from the Second Temple period to the Bar Kokhba Revolt) – were discovered in situ, along with a bronze needle (b. 502). Between two pieces of rock adjacent to the western wall of the hall and about a metre and a half to the north, another group of 24 coins (Hoard C; figs 8 and 9) – five Roman gold coins, 15 silver coins (13 Roman – Imperial and Provincial coins and two Bar Kokhba denarii), and four Roman bronze coins of the city of Ascalon – were found in situ, along with an elongated object made of iron (probably another needle). Next to them fragments of a storage jar were found (b. 104). As stated above, finds in fairly good condition survived on the edges of the cave. Perhaps due to the relative dryness of the elevated area along the walls, the fugitives preferred to sit near the edges of the hall and also kept their money and belongings there. Another storage jar, probably used for the collection of water, was found near one of the spots where water drips from the cave ceiling (b. 105). Next to this hall’s eastern wall, in a narrow gap between the fallen stones and the wall, two iron shafted weapons were found in situ (b. 106 and 107; fig. 10). One is a typical Roman pilum – a heavy javelin that probably was part of the booty captured by the rebels (fig. 11a). The other, which is much rarer, is a spear manufactured by the rebels (fig. 11b). It is very similar to the one found in the ‘Cave of the Spear’ in the Judean Desert. Both weapons were kept out of sight but in a place where they could be grabbed and used without delay. Aside from the finds described above, which had been brought to the site by fighters and refugees at the end of the Bar Kokhba Revolt, hall F was empty. No remains – for instance, of a large pottery assemblage, organic materials, charcoal or soot on the walls and ceiling – was found in it to

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F i g. 4  Hoard A in situ (photo: B. Langford)

F i g. 5  Hoard A after cleaning (photo: B. Zissu)

R e m a i n s o f t h e B a r K o k h b a R e v o lt | 2 7 1 indicate that the rebels stayed in halls F and G for long. It seems that this hall served as the last hidden, very-hard-to-reach place of refuge, at a time of extreme distress, for a group of people who were very familiar with the secrets of the cave. From the inner (northern) part of hall F one descends to hall G, which has a different character, fairly dry and almost devoid of cave sediments. An elongated path (maximum length 24 metres and average width 4 metres) leads to hall G. In its northern section there are signs of the removal of stones from the eastern wall to the western wall and of the construction of a sort of terrace, perhaps by the people hiding in the cave. The removal of stones created a narrow north-south pathway next to the eastern wall of the hall. Hall G is almost completely devoid of archaeological finds, other than an intact small flask preserved in a crack between two pieces of rock in the western wall of the hall (b. 506) and the bottom of a storage jar. Also discovered were five concentrations of crumbling human bones.13 The bones had been placed in a natural crack at a low level on the northeastern edge of hall G (point H), and in the top level along the cleared access path (from which the stones had been removed) leading to the crack. The geology of halls F and G does not seem to have changed much since the Bar Kokhba Revolt. The finds were discovered on the hall floor and between rocks, and there does not seem to have been a major collapse or massive sedimentation in this section of the cave since the revolt. However, the high humidity and the dripping of water, together with small physical shifts and activity of animals, apparently prevented the preservation of organic materials and caused some damage to the inorganic finds. There is no way to determine why the stones in hall G were moved: to create a path to an inner area, to bring the bodies to burial, or perhaps in a desperate attempt to get out of the cave. In any case, the discovery of bones and hoards of coins suggests that the fugitives met their death in the cave.

Discussion The survey of the inner section of the Te’omim Cave indicates that it was used for refuge purposes. Fighters – as evidenced by the weapons – fled 13. An examination of the teeth indicates that they belong to at least three individuals: two men and a woman, aged around 40–50.

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F i g. 6  Hoard B in situ, partly covered with dirt (photo: B. Zissu)

F i g. 7  Hoard B after cleaning (photo: B. Zissu)

R e m a i n s o f t h e B a r K o k h b a R e v o lt | 2 7 3 to the cave at the end of the Bar Kokhba Revolt, perhaps bringing along additional refugees from a nearby Jewish village. The fugitives were familiar with the secrets of the cave and the advantages of the inner section, which is hard to reach, is hidden from the eye, and has a constant water supply. Presumably, the refugees lived in a nearby village: several ancient sites from that period have been found nearby.14 For now, there is no way to determine precisely where the Jews who fled to the cave came from. So far we have encountered the use of natural caves in the Judean Desert cliffs for refuge purposes15 and the hewing of underground hiding complexes beneath sites, located in the settled parts of Judea.16 The Te’omim Cave is unusual in that it is a natural cave situated in the heart of Judea. Archaeologists have discovered in recent years, few natural caves situated in the settled part of the country, which were used as places of refuge during the Bar Kokhba War. The circumstances of the discovery demonstrate that the hoards were deposited intentionally by their owners, towards the end of the Bar Kokhba War. Hoard A is the only hoard of silver Bar Kokhba coins discovered thus far in a controlled archaeological exploration (vs. illegal excavations). In his remarkable study, Leo Mildenberg documented 29 Bar Kokhba coin hoards that appeared on the antiquities market from 1889 to 1982. He noted that antiquities thieves found two hoards that resemble Hoard A in terms of the number of coins: one in the village of Beit Umar in 1976, and the other near Dahariyeh in 1980.17 14. For instance, north of Nahal Hameʽara, at Hurvat Jerash West (map coordinates 15138/12646), a settlement was surveyed that included buildings, various facilities, and rock-cut caves. Next to the buildings were two stepped, plastered facilities identified as Jewish ritual baths (miqveh). See: B. Zissu. ‘Identification of Gerasa in Judea’, in: Y. Eshel (ed.), Judea and Samaria Research Studies 16 (Ariel, 2007), pp. 225–228 (Hebrew); D. Weiss, B. Zissu and G. Solimany, Archaeological Survey of Israel, Map of Nes Harim (104) (Jerusalem 2004), pp. 46–7; The remains of a settlement surveyed in Hurvat Assad, south of the wadi, included a building made of large hewn stones and two ritual baths, one of them with a double entrance For a description of the site, see Weiss et al., Archaeological Survey, pp. 60–61. The baths were identified only recently. 15. See H. Eshel and D. Amit (eds), Refuge Caves of the Bar Kokhba Revolt (Tel Aviv 1998; Hebrew); H. Eshel and R. Porat (eds), Refuge Caves of the Bar Kokhba Revolt, vol. 2 (Jerusalem 2009; Hebrew). 16. See A. Kloner and Y. Tepper, The Hiding Complexes in the Judean Shephelah (Tel Aviv 1987; Hebrew); A. Kloner and B. Zissu, ‘Hiding Complexes in Judaea: An Archaeological and Geographical Update on the Area of the Bar Kokhba Revolt’, in P. Schäfer (ed.), The Bar Kokhba War Reconsidered: New Perspectives on the Second Jewish Revolt against Rome (Tübingen 2003), pp. 181–216. 17. L. Mildenberg, The Coinage of the Bar Kokhba War, Aarau, Frankfurt, 1984, pp. 49–57.

2 74 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s

F i g. 8  Hoard C in situ (photo: B. Zissu)

F i g. 9  Hoard C after cleaning (photo: B. Zissu)

R e m a i n s o f t h e B a r K o k h b a R e v o lt | 2 75 Hoard A includes one sela‘ (tetradrachm) from year 1 of the ‘Redemption of Israel’, six sela‘im from year 2 of the ‘Freedom of Israel’, and 13 sela‘im from the third year of the revolt. This hoard does not contain any denarii from the first year of the revolt. Four zuzim (denarii) in the hoard have the name Shim‘on in abbreviated form (Shim‘) on one side, and the inscription ‘Eleazar the Priest’ on the other. It is generally assumed that these denarii were struck in the second year of the revolt. Aside from these four denarii, the hoard contains another thirteen denarii struck in the second year of the revolt, and forty-six denarii struck in the last year of the revolt and bearing the inscription ‘For the Freedom of Jerusalem.’ The three sela‘im struck with previously undocumented dies (nos. a16, 17, 18) and two sela‘im struck with a pair of dies never before documented on the same coin are important from a numismatic standpoint. One of the denarii (no. 77), which belongs to the series of irregular coins, is important as well. A hoard can be defined as ‘a group of coins or other valuables which was concealed as a unit’.18 There are many different types of hoards; two common categorizations are the ‘savings’ hoard and the ‘emergency’ hoard. But, as we shall see, these distinctions are quite blurred. A ‘savings’ hoard is created by gradually accumulating coins over a period of time. The coins in such a hoard tend to be of high denomination, in good condition and covering a wide range of dates. Such a hoard is concealed for safety, and if the owner dies suddenly the hoard is left buried for future generations to discover. An ‘emergency’ hoard typically represents the coins the owner was able to gather and hide when under threat of robbery or looting, and it thus reflects the proportions of current coin types. Occurrences of such hoards can frequently be related to periods of disruption and upheaval, like the Bar Kokhba War, that prevented the owners from returning to recover their possessions. The long life-span of Hoard B and Hoard C may indicate that they were initially ‘savings’ hoards, but due to the vexed times they were taken away to the cave and hidden, and therefore they turned to be ‘emergency’ hoards. The second group of coins (Hoard B) is quite heterogeneous. It is significant in that it is the first Bar Kokhba coins ever discovered, to include Jewish coins from the Second Temple period (a shekel minted in the second year 18. P. Grierson, Numismatics, Oxford, 1975, p. 125.

276 | jou r na l of j ew ish st u di e s

F i g. 10  The weapons in situ (photo: B. Zissu)

A   B

F i g. 11  Drawings of the weapons (Esther Stark)

R e m a i n s o f t h e B a r K o k h b a R e v o lt | 2 7 7

F i g. 12  Fragments of storage jars in situ, in a niche on the side of the access passage (photo: B. Zissu)

of the Jewish War (67/8 c e) and a perutah of John Hyrcanus). In general, ‘bad money’, i.e. coins with a low percentage of the valuable metal (Roman imperial silver coins were just 70 per cent silver and 30 per cent bronze), puts ‘good money’ out of circulation, since the people who have the ‘good money’ keep it for themselves instead of spending it.19 Because the shekels minted during the Jewish War were 99 per cent silver, the owners of ‘Hoard B’ presumably kept the shekel due to its monetary value. But the presence of a bronze perutah from the time of John Hyrcanus cannot be explained in a similar manner. Therefore, we have to consider the possibility that they kept both of these coins for nationalistic reasons. Hoard C contained five ‘old’ aurei, four denarii and three tetradrachms struck during the first century c e (Tiberius to Domitian). It also contained four denarii, two tetradrachms, two denarii (zuzim) of the rebels and four bronze coins of Ascalon minted during the second century (Trajan and Hadrian). Presumably, the older and more precious coins (the aurei) were kept 19. On hoarding as a habit and Gresham’s Law, see L.R. Laing, Coins and Archaeology, London, 1969, pp. 52–4.

278 | jou r na l of j ew ish st u di e s

F i g. 13  Pottery drawings, nos. 1–11 (J. Rudman)

R e m a i n s o f t h e B a r K o k h b a R e v o lt | 2 7 9

F i g. 14  Oil-lamps, glass, varia; drawings, nos 12–16 (J. Rudman)

by a family that later fled to the cave, and were passed down from generation to generation with the rest of the family’s assets. This is the second hoard from this period combining gold and silver together ever to have been found in a controlled excavation in Israel. (The first one was uncovered at Kh. Badd ‘Isa, and consisted of 146 coins, all of them silver except for two gold aurei.) G. Bijovsky has stressed that gold Roman coins are very rare; she mentioned only 7 aurei which were recorded in the past in Israel.20 It should be stressed that with the exclusion of the few bronze coins minted at Ascalon, the coins included in Hoards B and C are large denominations, usually kept for larger transactions. They include mostly Imperial coins (denarii) and Provincial tetradrachms and drachms, the prevalent silver currency issued in the East and dated from the reign of Vespasian onwards.21 They do not represent typical coins used for daily payments. Since a gold aureus was worth twenty-five silver denarii, Hoard C, containing twenty-four coins,

20. G. Bijovsky, The Coins from Kh. Badd-’Isa – Qiryat Sefer; Isolated Coins and Two Hoards Dated to the Bar Kokhba Revolt, In: N. Haimovich-Carmin (ed.), The Land of Benjamin, Jerusalem, 2004, pp. 243–300. 21. Bijovsky (above) has shown that Julio-Claudian denarii are missing from Bar-Kokhba period’ hoards – they were apparently removed from circulation because their silver contents were higher.

280 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es exceeded Hoard A (of eighty-three coins) in value. Hoard C was worth 155 silver denarii, whereas Hoard A was worth only 143. We should keep in mind that rather than mint new coins, the rebels’ administration overstruck Roman ones, a blatant declaration of sovereignty – as clearly shown by all coins found in Hoard A. Presumably, the owners of this hoard supported the revolt, since they submitted the Bar Kokhba minting authorities all the coins in their possession in order to be overstruck. In contrast, the two other owners were more cautious; they decided to have only few of their coins overstruck, since such insurgent’ coins were valid tender only in areas controlled by the rebels. The same phenomenon is noticeable in other insurgent-hidden hoards found in other contexts of the Bar Kokhba War, e.g. at the ‘Cave of the Sandal’, near Jericho.22 The occurrence of groups of ‘original’ (not overstruck) Roman silver coins in these contexts, may indicate that some residents preferred to keep the Roman coins that could always be used for obtaining provisions from areas beyond the rebel’s control. Apparently such hoards were concealed against the eventuality of the revolt’s failure. The examination of Hoard B and Hoard C shows that all Roman coins pre-date 132 c e. The same picture emerges from other insurgent-hidden hoards, apparently demonstrating a situation of economic isolation of the rebels’ ‘state’ from neighbouring areas.23 Usually hoards are dated according to the instance at which the hoard was closed. The burial date of the hoard is most probably not much later than the latest datable coin in the hoard. The condition of the latest coin may be an additional indicator for the date of closure of the hoard. Since the latest coins – denarii of Hadrian and zuzim and sela’im overstruck by the rebels – show little sign of wear, it appears that the hoard was buried soon after the date of the latest coin. The latest Roman coin is a denarius of Hadrian minted in Rome (128–132 c e); The latest rebels’ coins are zuzim and sela’im from 134/5 c e. Therefore, it seems safe to assume that the hoards were hidden towards the end of the war. We assume that these precious coins were never retrieved, since their owners didn’t survive the war. 22. H. Eshel and B. Zissu, ‘Roman Coins from the “Cave of the Sandal” West of Jericho’, Israel Numismatic Journal 13 (1994–99), pp. 70–77. 23. See: H. Eshel and B. Zissu, above, pp. 72–73, and n. 27; H. Eshel, The Bar Kokhba Revolt 132–135, in: S.T. Katz (ed.), The Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 4: The Late Roman-Rabbinic Period, Cambridge, 2006, pp. 113–14.

R e m a i n s o f t h e B a r K o k h b a R e v o lt | 2 81 a pp e n d i x 1  Potsherds, fragments of oil-lamps, and pieces of glass and metal objects from the inner section of the Te’omim Cave (see figs 13 & 14, drawings 1–16) No. Object

Record Description no.

Parallels

Dating

1

Storage jar

b.108/1

Light brown clay; white grits

Hiding complex in Ahuzat Hazan1 and in Rasm er-Rusum;2 L4142 at Horvat ʽEthri 3

Late 1st–first third of 2nd century c e

2

Storage jar

b.100/1

Crumbly, sandy reddish clay; gray core; white grits

Hideout complex in Ahuzat Hazan;4 Masada5

Late 1st–first third of 2nd century c e

3

Storage jar

b. 104

Sandy orange-gray clay; large bits of white grits; uneven firing; misshapen rim

Variant of no. 2 Late 1st–first above; see parallels third of 2nd there. century c e

4

Storage jar

b.109/1

Yellowish clay; white grits

Masada, Garrison 26

Late 1st–first third of 2nd century c e

5

Storage jar

b.105

Orange clay; red and black grits

Variant of no. 4 above; see parallel there

Late 1st–first third of 2nd century c e

6

Storage jar

b.110/1

Gray-brown clay; white grits

Late 1st–first The Cave of the third of 2nd Tetradrachm;7 Hiding complex in century c e ʽAin ʽArrub 8

7

Storage jar

b.100/2

Yellowish-orange Variant of no. 6 Late 1st–first clay on the exterior, above; see parallels third of 2nd orange clay on the there century c e interior; levigated

8

Storage jar

b.108/2

Brown-gray clay; white grits

Late 1st–first The Cave of the third of 2nd Tetradrachm9; Hiding complex in century c e Ahuzat Hazan10

9

Storage jar

b.102

Orange clay; white and red grits

Variant of no. 8 Late 1st–first above; see parallels third of 2nd there century c e

Reddish-brown clay; white grits

Hiding complex 20 1st–first in Horvat Midras;11 third of 2nd Horvat ʽEthri, century c e L414212

10

Cooking pot b.110/2

282 | jou r na l of j ew ish st u di e s No. Object

Record Description no.

Parallels

Dating 1st century b c e –first third of 2nd century c e

11

b.506 Cupmark rimmed juglet

Gray-brown clay; white grits

Masada, type MJT1;13 Hideouts in Ahuzat Hazan14

12

Mould-made b.505 oil-lamp with, rounded mouth, decorated with a schematic palm frond encompassing the filling hole – variant of the Judean oil-lamp

Light brown clay; a little red grits

Late 1st–first Ahuzat Hazan hideout complex;15 third of 2nd Schloesinger century c e collection;16

13

Oil-lamp b.504 – local variant of the disc lamp or ‘round Roman’ lamp

Gray-brown clay; brown slip; a little white grits; signs of soot

Cave of the Sandal Late 1st–2nd in Ketef Yeriho;17 century c e Complex 1 at Kh. Gedor.18

14

Small, candlestickshaped glass bottle

b.103

Transparent greenish glass

Late 1st–2nd Cave of Letters;19 Hiding complex in century c e ʽAin ʽArrub.20

15

Bronze needle

b.502

Covered with green patina; two fragments totaling 5.6 cm in length (point missing)

El-Jai Cave21

1st–2nd century c e

16

Fragment of silver jewellery

A85

Small ring or earring; setting missing; destroyed in antiquity and crushed in order to reuse the metal; weight 1.08 g (approximately a third of a denarius)

Earrings made with a similar technique were found in a Bar Kokhba–period hoard, allegedly found in the area of Beth Govrin.22

1st–2nd century c e

notes 1. A. Kloner, ‘Pottery and Miscellaneous Finds in the Hiding Complexes’, in: A. Kloner and Y. Tepper, The Hiding Complexes in the Judean Shephelah (Tel-Aviv, 1987), p. 352, fig. 166: 7 (Hebrew).

R e m a i n s o f t h e B a r K o k h b a R e v o lt | 2 83 2. Kloner, Pottery (as in no. 18 above), p. 344, fig. 161: 2. 3. B. Zissu and A. Ganor, ‘Horvat ʽEthri – A Jewish Village from the Second Temple Period and the Bar Kokhba Revolt in the Judean Foothills’, JJS 60 (2009), fig. 17:12. 4. Kloner, Pottery (as in no. 18 above), p. 352, fig. 166: 13. 5. R. Bar-Nathan, ‘The Pottery of Masada’, in: J. Aviram, G. Foerster and E. Netzer (eds), Masada IV, The Yigael Yadin Excavations 1963–1965, Final Reports (Jerusalem, 2006), pp. 74–5, pl. 16:100. 6. Bar-Nathan, The Pottery (as in no. 22 above), pp. 74–75, pl. 16:102–4. 7. D. Amit and H. Eshel, ‘Bar Kokhba Period Finds from the Tetradrachm Cave’, in: H. Eshel and D. Amit (eds), Refuge Caves of the Bar Kokhba Revolt (Tel-Aviv, 1998; Hebrew), pl. 3:46. 8. A. Tsafrir and B. Zissu, ‘A Hiding Complex of the Second Temple Period and the Time of the Bar-Kokhba Revolt at ‘Ain-‘Arrub in the Hebron Hills’, in: J. Humphrey (ed.). The Roman and Byzantine Near East, Vol. 3, [ Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplement, 49] (Portsmouth, 2002) fig. 13:10. 9. Amit and Eshel, Bar Kokhba (as in no. 24 above), pl. 3:49. 10. Kloner, Pottery (as in no. 18 above), p. 352, fig. 166: 5. 11. Kloner, Pottery (as in no. 18 above), p. 342, fig. 160: 13. 12. Zissu and Ganor, ʽHorvat ʽEthri (as in no. 20 above), fig. 17:6. 13. Bar-Nathan, The Pottery (as in no. 22 above), pp. 190–193, pl. 33:1–14. 14. Kloner, Pottery (as in no. 18 above), pl. 5:13 15. Kloner, Pottery (as in no. 18 above), pl. 5:19 16. R. Rosenthal and R. Sivan, Ancient Lamps in the Schloesinger Collection, [Qedem 8] (Jerusalem, 1978), p. 84, no. 346. For a discussion of the dating of the Judean (Darom) oil-lamps, see D. Barag and M. Hershkovitz, ‘Lamps from Masada’, J. Aviram, G. Foerster and E. Netzer (eds), Masada IV, The Yigael Yadin Excavations 1963–1965, Final Reports (Jerusalem, 1994), pp. 72–78. 17. H. Eshel and B. Zissu, ‘Finds from the Bar Kokhba Period in the Caves at Ketef Jericho’, in: H. Eshel and D. Amit (eds), Refuge Caves of the Bar Kokhba Revolt (Tel-Aviv, 1998; Hebrew), pl. 4:7. 18. Kloner, Pottery (as in no. 18 above), pl. 4:7; See discussion by S. Hadad S., The Oil Lamps from the Hebrew University Excavations at Bet Shean, [Excavations at Bet Shean Vol. 1; Qedem Reports 4] (Jerusalem, 2002), type 7, pp. 16–20. 19. Y. Yadin, The Finds from the Bar Kokhba Period in the Cave of the Letters (Jerusalem, 1963), fig. 38:3 20. Tsafrir and Zissu, A Hiding Complex (as in no. 25 above), p. 28, fig. 17:12. 21. H. Eshel, B. Zissu, and A. Frumkin, ‘Two Refuge Caves in Wadi Suweinit’, in: H. Eshel and D. Amit (eds), Refuge Caves of the Bar Kokhba Revolt (Tel-Aviv, 1998; Hebrew), p. 98, pl. 2, and other parallels mentioned there. 22. J.N. Svoronos, ‘Κοσμηματα χρισα εκ του ανωτερω περιγραφεντος ευρηματος της Ελευθερουπολεως’, Journal International d’Archéologie Numismatique (1907), p. 12, 13, 14, 16, fig. 12:9; On the coins in this hoard, see: J.N. Svoronos, ‘Ευρημα Ελευθερουπολεως Παλαιστινη’, Journal International d’Archéologie Numismatique (1907), pp. 230–48.

j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s   |   v o l .   l x i 1   |   n o .   2   |   a u t u m n 2 011

Tiqqun ‘olam (repairing the world) in the Mishnah: from populating the world to building a community Sagit Mor Beit-Berl College, Israel

a b s t r ac t  Tiqqun ‘olam is an elusive concept in Jewish thought. In halakhic sources the term is not defined, yet it is invoked in the Mishnah as the justification for a variety of rabbinic taqqanot/enactments. The concept of tiqqun ‘olam originated during the end of the Second Temple period. This term first appears in a dispute between Bet Shammai and Bet Hillel (mGittin 4:5). The concept of tiqqun ‘olam began to change during the Ushah period as a result of the harsh political, demographical and economic conditions following the BarKokhba revolt. The main change came at the end of the Mishnaic period, with the editing of the tiqqun ‘olam unit in tractate Gittin by R. Judah haNasi and his disciples. In this paper I trace the early life of the concept tiqqun ‘olam as it appears in the Mishnah, and expose the first layer of the development of the concept.

T

i q qu n ‘o l a m , ‘repairing’ or ‘improving’ the world, is an elusive concept in Jewish thought. In halakhic sources the term is not defined, yet it is invoked in the Mishnah as the justification for a variety of rabbinic taqqanot/enactments. The concept of tiqqun ‘olam originated during the end of the Second Temple period, as I shall show in this paper. This term first appears in a dispute between Bet Shammai and Bet Hillel (mGittin 4:5). The concept of tiqqun ‘olam began to change during the Ushah period as a result of the harsh political, demographical and economic conditions following the Bar-Kokhba revolt. The main change came at the end of the Mishnaic period, with the editing of the tiqqun ‘olam unit in tractate Gittin by R. Judah haNasi and his disciples. I am grateful to Professor Z. Safrai for his help in preparing this paper.

t i q q u n ‘o l a m i n t h e m i s h n a h | 2 85 My aim here therefore, is to trace the early life of the concept tiqqun ‘olam as it appears in the Mishnah, and to expose the first layer of the development of the concept.

The composition of the tiqqun ‘olam unit in the Mishnah The term tiqqun ‘olam appears a number of times in tannaitic halakhah, in chapters four and five of tractate Gittin in the Mishnah. These chapters can be viewed as a textual unit which in turn is made up of three clusters, each comprising sources from different periods.1 In the main cluster (mGittin 4:4–5:4) we find taqqanot 2 and disputes that employ the rationale ‘for the sake of tiqqun ‘olam’. The two additional clusters, although they do not mention tiqqun ‘olam explicitly, may also be added to this collection. The first of these additional clusters includes taqqanot with various rationales, that resemble the tiqqun ‘olam taqqanot both in syntax and semantic field (mGittin 5:5–7): ‘the taqqanah about the return of the value of stolen property’ (mGittin 5:5 taqqanat hashavim), ‘siqqarikon’ (mGittin 5:6)’ and ‘for the altar’ (mGittin 5:5 tiqqun ha-mizbeah). The second of these additional clusters contains halakhot that employ the rationale ‘for the sake of peace’ (darkei shalom, mGittin 5:9–10). The range of topics addressed by the tiqqun ‘olam taqqanot, and the fact that they were composed at different times, makes it difficult to trace common features or pinpoint criteria for inclusion within the tiqqun ‘olam unit. Thus research has focused on the individual taqqanot and the talmudic pericope upon which each one was based3 or on examination of the clusters of halakhot as 1. This cluster contains ancient taqqanot from the late Second Temple period. The main significance of the taqqanah is that it is an institutionalized act produced by an official authorized body (the court and its head). As a result of editorial decisions, these original taqqanot were augmented with additional taqqanot and laws from later periods – from the Ushah period and the generation of R. Judah HaNasi and his circle. In some cases the names of the authors of these taqqanot are known from sources parallel to this mishnaic unit. 2. On the taqqanah and its role in tannaitic halakhah see: Ephraim E. Urbach, The Halakha: Its Sources and Development (Masada, Yad la-Talmud, 1984), pp. 69–70 and chapter 2; Menachem Elon, Jewish Law: History, Sources, Principles (Jerusalem, 1992) (in Hebrew), chapters 13–14. 3. For examples see: Ephraim Elimelech Urbach, ‘The laws regarding slavery as a source for social history of the period of the Second Temple, the Mishnah and Talmud’, in Collected Writings in Jewish Studies, ed. Robert Brody and Moshe D. Herr (Jerusalem, 1999), pp. 56–95; idem, ‘Hefker – on the Place of Derelictio in Historical Reality’, Shenaton Ha-Mishpat Ha-Ivri, pp. 6–7, ed. Menachem Elon and Shmuel Shilo (Jerusalem, 1979–80), pp. 7–28 (in Hebrew). Samuel Atlas, Pathways in Hebrew Law (New York, 1978); Elon, op. cit. (n.2). Some studies have ostensibly examined the unit as a whole, but due to the focus and limited scope of the article, the scholar did not engage in a full discussion of the meaning of tiqqun ‘olam – e.g.: Jacob G. Blidstein, ‘The Import of Early Rabbinic Writings

286 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es independent units,4 rather than on a comprehensive analysis.5 In this article I draw from all three clusters, and from elsewhere in  talmudic literature, to analyse the concept of tiqqun ‘olam, and look at the transformations it underwent during the tannaitic period.

The early ideational concept of tiqqun ‘olam I will begin with one of the earliest-composed halakhot in the cluster,6 both because of its chronological significance and because it is one of the only two halakhot7 in which the rationale is an organic part of the taqqanah.

The rationale: ‘because of tiqqun ‘olam’ is not found in every halakhah in the cluster. Where it does appear in the cluster, in all cases except two the rationale appears at the end of the halakhah it relates to, or at the end of a mishnah which includes a number of halakhot. Within the cluster of mishnayot on tiqqun ‘olam it is possible to identify an internal cluster which has a common denominator (mGittin 4:4–6): these discuss a person who has an intermediate status between slavery and freedom. Only in two of these – a slave whose master has used him as a guarantee (mGittin 4:4) and ‘someone who is half a slave’ (mGittin 4:5) – does the

for an Understanding of Judaism in the Hellenistic-Roman Period’, in Shemaryahu Talmon, ed., Jewish Civilization in the Hellenistic-Roman Period (Sheffield, 1991), pp. 64–72 (in Hebrew); Gilbert S. Rosenthal, ‘Tikkun ha-‘Olam: The Metamorphosis of a Concept’, Journal of Religion 85 (2005), pp. 214–40. 4. See e.g. Eliezer Bograd, Mipnei Darkei Shalom (MA, Tel Aviv University, 1978); Alter Hilbetz, ‘Towards the Clarification of the Matter of “For the Sake of Peace” (Mipnei Darkei Shalom) with regard to Gentiles’, Sinai 100 (1987), pp. 328–58 (in Hebrew). 5. An example of this omission can be seen in Elon (n. 2 above), p. 864. Lieberman does not deal with tiqqun ‘olam as a total concept, but makes isolated remarks. See: Saul Lieberman, Tosefta Kifshutah (New York, 1955), Gittin, p. 842; Tosefta Kifshuta: Ketubot, p. 370. More recent studies have addressed this issue (see Menachem Lorberbaum, ‘Maimonides’ Teleology of Halakha’, Tarbiz 64 (1994) pp. 65–82, in Hebrew) or have considered the meaning of the term in our time: Rosenthal (as in n. 3). Rosenthal’s analysis does not differentiate between the various levels of development of the concept in talmudic texts. 6. This is clear from the fact that the taqqanah is attributed to a dispute between the schools of Hillel and Shammai, who are among the early tannaim who appear in the unit. The other halakhot in the unit are related to later generations, or were ruled in the first place in a different context, and were placed in the tiqqun ‘olam unit as a result of the editorial activity of Rabbi Judah haNasi and his contemporaries. As I shall show later, in their editing the editors changed the original aims of the taqqanot and added the rationale: mipnei tiqqun ‘olam. 7. The first refers to ‘A slave whose master has designated him as a guarantee for another man’ (apoteqei) (4) and ‘a man who is half a slave’ (5).

t i q q u n ‘o l a m i n t h e m i s h n a h | 2 8 7 rationale appear as a part of the presentation of the halakhah and not at the end of it.8 There are about thirty more discussions about ‘someone who is half a slave’ in the Talmudic literature. But it is only in this disagreement between the schools of Shammai and Hillel in our mishnah from tractate Gittin (or when this mishnah is cited in other sources) that the rationale ‘because of tiqqun ‘olam’ appears. In the rest of the sources this rationale does not appear as part of a taqqanah or halakhah, nor is it brought as part of a debate. This, then, serves to back up the conclusion that the taqqanah of ‘someone who is a half-slave’ in mGittin 4:5 is the Sitz in Leben of the expression. MGittin 4:5 is a dispute between the schools of Hillel and Shammai about the personal or public legal status of Canaanite slaves who are half slave and half free:9 One who is half a slave and half free works for his master and for himself on alternate days. This was the ruling of the school of Hillel. The school of Shammai said: You have made matters right (tiqqantem) for the master, but not for the slave. It is impossible for him to marry a female slave because he is already half free. It is impossible for him to marry a free woman because he is half a slave. Shall he then remain idle? But was not the world only made to be populated, as it says, ‘He created it not a waste, he formed it to be inhabited?’ (Isaiah 45:18). For the sake of tiqqun ‘olam, therefore, his master is compelled to liberate him and give him a bond for half his purchase price. The school of Hillel thereupon retracted [their opinion and] ruled like the school of Shammai.10

The halakhah seeks to eliminate this borderline status, and to classify each person as either entirely enslaved or entirely free. Unlike the other halakhot 8. The rationale appears in a different way in mGittin 4:6. The editor of the unit appears to have formulated the words of the first Tanna (tanna qama) so as to exclude the taqqanah from the category of a ‘taqqanah regarding captives’. His approach sees this taqqanah as more appropriate to the taqqanot ‘for the sake of tiqqun ‘olam’ (infra). It should not therefore be understood as a dispute unequivocally focused on the details of the taqqanah, as in the original disputes in which this rationale is given (contra Lorberbaum, note 5 above), p. 74. 9. This happens as a result of a transfer of the slave’s ownership or as a result of partial manumission. According to the taqqanah regarding a slave designated as a guarantee for a third party (apoteqei), a slave becomes free according to the letter of the law; but there is likely to be a disparity between the slave’s legal status and the way in which the community perceives the slave. This disparity could be abused by a creditor (see Rashi’s comment on bGittin 41a). 10. The Hebrew text of the mishnah is taken from the Kaufman manuscript. I have also used MS Parma 138, the Loewe edition of Cambridge 470.1, and MS New York, Seminar Sulzberger JTS 138. English translations of Mishnah, Babylonian Talmud and Midrash Rabbah are based on the Soncino Press Edition (CD-ROM Judaica Press, New York); H Danby, Mishnah (Oxford, 1933). Hebrew Bible: Tanakh: The Holy Scriptures (Philadelphia/Jerusalem, 1985), CD-ROM edition.

288 | jou r na l of j ew ish st u di e s in the tiqqun ‘olam  unit, where the rationale ‘for the sake of tiqqun ‘olam’ is given at the conclusion of the halakhah or the mishnah, appended almost like an afterthought in a manner that calls into question its originality, here the rationale is integral to the halakhah. Its role is to substantiate diverging from the school of Hillel’s position and to offer a practical alternative (and the one ultimately accepted as halakhah). For this reason, (as well as others I shall present below), I believe that the dispute in mishnah 5 provides the Sitz im Leben for the term’s usage in its concrete manifestation as an organic part of the halakhah. This is the more likely given that this dispute is among the earliest halakhot of the cluster. This dispute appears to raise the possibility of maintaining a situation in which a person is half-enslaved and half-free.11 The expression ‘works for his master and for himself on alternate days’, attributed to the school of Hillel, implies their concern that the slave’s new legal status will infringe upon the economic rights of the owner. Their perspective is thus economic and instrumental,12 and does not reckon with the potential problem for the slave. The school of Shammai clearly agrees with the school of Hillel’s limited resolution of the issues of the half-slave’s work and rights. Nevertheless, they relocate the discussion from the realm of labour relations to the question of the place of humankind in the created world. Thus the school of Shammai seeks a practical resolution of a domestic problem of the partially freed slave, but uses reasoning relating not only to his individual rights but to his purpose in the world. Their attitude, then, reflects a general principle, rather than a solution for a particular question. The school of Shammai’s formulation comprises four components: 1. A claim contradicting the position of the school of Hillel: You have made matters right for the master but not for the slave…. Was not the world only made to be populated?’ 2. Substantiation of the claim by citing scriptural authority: ‘He created it not a waste…’ 3. A proposed formulation conceptualizing this reasoning: ‘for the sake of tiqqun ‘olam’ 11. The question of partially manumitted slaves was prominent in ancient law: Israel Ostersetzer, ‘Partial Manumission in Talmudical Law’, Tarbiz 8 (1937), pp. 1–4. For a slave’s right of acquisition in Jewish and Roman Law: Boaz Cohen, Jewish and Roman Law, vol. 1 (New York, 1966), pp. 179–278. 12. See Catherine Hezser, Jewish Slavery in Antiquity (New York, 2005) pp. 106–8.

t i q q u n ‘o l a m i n t h e m i s h n a h | 2 8 9 4. Presentation of a practical means for solving the problem: ‘His master is compelled to liberate him and give him a bond for half his purchase price.’ In order to strengthen their claim, the school of Shammai cites Isaiah 45:18: For thus said the Lord, The Creator of heaven who alone is God, Who formed the earth and made it, Who alone established it He did not create it a waste, But formed it for habitation: I am the Lord, and there is none else.

This verse describes the goal of God’s creation – the population of the world. The actual means of populating the world is commanded in Genesis 1:28: ‘Be fertile and increase, fill the earth and master it…’. This follows naturally, for the school of Shammai has explicitly stated that the purpose of the world is reproduction. So why did they not refer to the more explicit verse from Genesis?13 I suggest that the prophet’s words are preferred for the multiple levels of meaning which are intrinsic to an understanding of the usage of the tiqqun ‘olam clause.14 First, procreation is construed as a positive commandment. A Canaanite slave is not obligated to observe this commandment, since slaves are obligated to observe commandments only as far as women are obligated, and this commandment is not binding upon women.15 The school of Shammai thus chose a more general text that describes the intention underlying creation, to which everyone is obligated, as opposed to the commandment prooftext which is more restricted. Following this understanding, slaves must be permitted to procreate to ensure the population of the world. Other aspects of the situation of the semi-manumitted slave are also supported by Isaiah. One of these aspects is seen in the immediate context of the verse which contrasts ‫ ּתֹהו‬, waste, with ‫שֶבֶת‬, habitation. Another is reflected by the wider context, which calls upon idol-worshippers to recognize 13. Contra: Adolf Büchler, ‘Notes on the Religious Status of the Canaanite Slave in the Century Preceding the Destruction of the Temple and Afterwards’, in Bruno Schindler, ed., Gaster Anniversary Volume (London, 1963), p. 551; Jeremy Cohen, Be Fertile and Increase, Fill the Earth and Master It (Ithaca/ London, 1989), p. 157; B. Cohen, op. cit. (as in n. 11), p. 28 n. 97. 14. Contra: Yair Lorberbaum, The Image of God: Halakhah and Aggadah (Tel Aviv, 2004), pp. 386–435 (in Hebrew). 15. mYeb. 6:6. R. Yohanan b. Beroqa disagrees.

290 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es the exclusivity of the God of Israel. These themes serve as concrete and ideological rationales for the total manumission of the slave. Thus the choice of a verse with the word ‘waste’ is intentional,  hinting at the threat posed by the existence of a partially manumitted slave to the community. For the rabbis, the status of slaves implied sexual immorality. Within the boundaries of this status untrammeled sexual urges were tolerated, for slaves were not seen as members of the community.16 In contrast, the ‘civilized’ world channels the sexual urge into reproduction within the family unit whose purpose is to populate the world.17 The talmudic pericope found in bGittin 42a brings into clearer focus the problematic inability of the slave to take responsibility and engage fully in populating the world by establishing a family: [If a slave who is half-emancipated] is gored by an ox, if it is on a day on which he belongs to his master, the [compensation goes] to his master. If it is on the day when he belongs to himself, it goes to him. If so, then on his master’s day should he not be allowed to marry a slave-woman and on his own day a free woman? – We do not apply this principle where a religious prohibition is involved.

This pericope stretches the rationale underlying the proposition of the school of Hillel ad absurdum. It speaks of the inability of the partially manumitted slave to bear full responsibility towards his wife and family as required by the marriage contract.18 16. On the distinction between ‘nature’ and ‘culture’, see Nissan Rubin, The Beginning of Life: Birth, Circumcision and Redemption of the Firstborn Ceremonies in the Talmud and Midrash (Tel Aviv, 1995), pp. 14–15 (in Hebrew). 17. Shlomo Naeh, ‘Heruta – A Talmudic Reflection on Freedom and Celibacy’, in Tzofia Lassman, ed., Issues in Talmudic Research (Jerusalem, 2001), pp. 10–27 (in Hebrew). 18. The way in which the school of Shammai understood the problems for society as a whole created by the situation of the partially manumitted slave has partial parallels in Roman legal processes of this period: i.e. the rule of Augustus (27–4 B CE). However, in the Roman world there was a dissonance between the legal status of the slave, who had no right to found a family, and his social status. Cases of slaves who were married to free women, owners of property etc. were very common. Cf. Keith Hopkins, Conquerors and Slaves (Cambridge, 1978), pp. 116–18, 123–32. The reform with regard to half-slaves was intended to regularize their legal status. The newly free men were thus enabled to marry free women and establish families according to Roman practice. Thus the aim of the Roman reform was similar to that of the earlier tiqqun ‘olam taqqanot: to ensure that Roman society was based on legitimate families, according to the Roman world-view. It is reasonable to suppose that the rabbis of the schools of Hillel and Shammai, and certainly the mishnaic rabbis of following generations, would have been aware of the Roman reforms, which would have been a source of inspiration for those dealing with similar problems in Jewish society. For the historical background and an overview of Augustan legislation see: William Warwick Buckland, A Textbook

t i q q u n ‘o l a m i n t h e m i s h n a h | 2 91 The term tiqqun ‘olam can also be seen as depicting the population of the world through sexual reproduction in R. Levi’s homily in yBerakhot 9:2 14a: 19 It is taught: R. Shimon b. Elazar said: There is no handbreadth that comes down from above which the earth does not meet with two handbreadths. What is the meaning of, ‘Where deep calls to deep in the roar of Your cataracts; all Your breakers and billows have swept over me’? [Ps. 42:8] R. Levi said: The upper waters are masculine and the lower waters are feminine. What is the meaning of ‘‫תפתח ארץ‬, Let the earth open up?’ [Is. 45:8] It is like the female, which opens for the male. [And what is the meaning of] ‘‫ויפרו ישע‬, and [let] triumph sprout?’ [ibid.] This is procreation. [And what is the meaning of] ‘‫וצדקה תצמיח‬, let vindication spring up?’ [ibid.] This is rainfall. For ‘I the Lord have created it.’ [ibid.] For this reason I created it: For the tiqqun and population of the world.

These homilies belong to a discussion about the blessing for rain.  The first homily proposes a reciprocal connection between rain and groundwater. The second is a reading of the verse from Isaiah (45:8) taken from the same chapter as the verse presented as the rationale for the school of Shammai’s position in our mishnah: Pour down, O skies, from above! Let the heavens rain down victory! Let the earth open up and triumph sprout, Yes, let vindication spring up: I the Lord have created it.

In R. Levi’s exegesis, the verse’s implicit metaphorical sexual connection between rain and the land is understood as the sexual relationship between male and female. The rainfall, as the sexual act which leads to fertilization, is necessary for the population (yishuv) and tiqqun of the world (tiqqun here meaning proper conduct, in the halakhah).20 Replacing the statement ‘I the Lord have created it’ with the purpose – ‘for this reason I created it’ – extends the commandment beyond the description of God’s activity, to encompass humans as actors within God’s vision of his cosmos.21 of Roman Law from Augustus to Justinian (Cambridge, 1966); Percy Ellwood Corbett, The Roman Law of Marriage (Oxford, 1969). 19. A parallel text is to be found in yTa’anit 1:3, 64b. 20. This approach, which connects the sexual urge to populate the world by establishing the family and realizing the commandment ‘Be fruitful and multiply’, can be found in other amoraic texts such as Gen.R. (9:7). 21. See also yBavaBatra 2:11 (13c).

292 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es There are a large number of midrashim on the verse from this same chapter of Isaiah, all of which turn the term tiqqun ‘olam to refer to the population of the world and the creation of human civilization through the commandment to be fruitful and multiply, stressing sexuality as a factor in fertilizing and creating the civilized world. The variety of halakhot and homilies, which treat tiqqun ‘olam as populating the world through procreation, allow for the hypothesis that the rabbis based their concept of tiqqun ‘olam on this chapter of Isaiah. We can see how they give the simple scriptural ideological concept of the population of the world legal reality through their different exegeses, intended to bring about its actualization in accordance with their conception. This, then, would strengthen the proposal that the dispute between the schools of Hillel and Shammai, reflects the original context of the concept of tiqqun ‘olam, since as noted, this is one of the two taqqanot where the rationale mipnei tiqqun ‘olam forms an organic part of the whole, and the only halakhah produced as a result of the exegesis of this chapter of Isaiah. Other meanings of tiqqun ‘olam, which derive from the linguistic root ‫( תק’ן‬t-q-n), appear in sayings attributed to the school of Shammai. The root ‫ תק’ן‬t-q-n first appears in Ecclesiastes.22 There, it is clear that the verb already had three meanings in biblical usage: creation of something new; repair of something old which has deteriorated; and improvement of an existing condition. In the rabbis’ usage, all these three meanings are found, both relating to abstractions and to tangible objects.23 In addition, the verb is sometimes used to denote the legislation of a new enactment.24 The school of Shammai’s objections combine two of the verb’s meanings: (a) the legislation of a general social enactment; (b) the purpose of the law, which is to improve the current situation. However, the usage of the word tiqqantem (you have made matters right) relating to the slave can be understood via an additional meaning in rabbinical linguistic usage. This additional meaning can be defined as acting specifically to uphold halakhic standards. The process of tiqqun transforms the object from the status of ‘not Jewish’ (nature) to 22. See Mordechai Zer Kavod, ‘The meaning of the Verbs AZN, HQR and TQN in Ecclesiastes’, Shmuel Abramski, et al. (eds), Shmuel Yeivin Jubilee Volume: Studies in Bible, Archaeology, Hebrew Language and the History of Israel, Presented on the Occasion of his 70th Birthday (Jerusalem, 1970), pp. 206–15. 23. For example see mRosh HaShanah 4:1 and Mo’ed Qatan 1:2. 24. In this connotation the verb is usually found in the hif‘il form. See e.g. mBerakhot 9:5, mShevi‘it 4:1, 10:3 (the prozbul taqqanah; cf. mGittin 4:3); and others; tBerakhot 6:21; tTerumot 10:17; tShebuot 1:1; and others.

t i q q u n ‘o l a m i n t h e m i s h n a h | 2 93 Jewish (culture). This can be seen in the case of donations to the priests (the tiqqun of fruit, tithes etc.) dedicated for Temple use. Without the tiqqun, the rest of the fruits would be unfit for consumption (by anyone, not just the priests!).25 The covenantal circumcision ceremony can be understood similarly. Removing the foreskin elevates the individual from the status of ‘person’ to that of ‘Jewish person’, incorporating him into the community. R. Hoshaya refers to this act as tiqqun:26 A philosopher asked R. Hoshaya: ‘If circumcision was so precious, why was it not given to Adam?’ … ‘I cannot send you away empty-handed’, said he; [the real reason is this:] ‘Whatever was created in the first six days requires further preparation … and even a man too requires tiqqun.’

The act of circumcision, a tiqqun in the sense of ‘repairing’ the individual to conform to a halakhic standard, shifting him from the status of ‘nonJew’ to that of ‘Jew’, is perceived as completion of the work begun by the Creator. A Jew who circumcises his son completes God’s work, transferring his son from the realm of ‘nature’ to the ‘civilized’ realm of Judaism. The school of Shammai’s interpretation of tiqqantem/‫ תקנתם‬should be understood in this way, since they perceive the partially manumitted slave as a person in transition towards full entry into Jewish culture. The significance of the tiqqun of the slave must be understood not only as the legal act (manumission), but rather as rendering him ‘complete’ and ‘halakhically fit’ to perform the obligation to be fruitful and multiply which applies to all Jews (i.e. to express his sexual drives in a legitimate manner in a family framework within the Jewish community). This understanding is supported by the full context of the verse from Isaiah above. This continues with a section (Isaiah 45:18–24) addressed to idol-worshippers, demanding that they recognize the exclusivity of the God of Israel: I did not speak in secret, at a site in a land of darkness; I did not say to the stock of Jacob, ‘Seek Me out in a wasteland’ – I the Lord, who foretell reliably, who announce what is true.   Come, gather together, draw nigh, you remnants of the nations! No foreknowledge had they who 25. Michael Sokoloff, A Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Aramaic of the Byzantine Period (Ramat Gan, 1992), pp. 589–90; and Rubin, Beginning of Life (as in n. 16), pp. 16–17; Aaron D. Panken, The Rhetoric of Innovation (Lanham, Boulder etc.: University Press of America, 2005). 26. Gen.R. 11:6, pp. 94–5. See Rubin (as in n. 16), pp. 77–9 and 170, n. 8.

294 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es carry their wooden images and pray to a god who cannot give success.  Speak up, compare testimony. Let them even take counsel together! Who announced this aforetime, foretold it of old? Was it not I the Lord? Then there is no god beside Me, no god exists beside Me who foretells truly and grants success.  Turn to Me and gain success,   All the ends of earth! For I am God, and there is none else.   By Myself have I sworn, from My mouth has issued truth, a word that shall not turn back: to Me every knee shall bend, every tongue swear loyalty.  They shall say: ‘Only through the Lord can I find victory and might. When people trust in Him, all their adversaries are put to shame.’

A semi-manumitted slave is in a transitory state between being a gentile and acknowledging God. The full context of Isaiah’s prophecy emphasizes this change in consciousness. To abandon a person in a semi-manumitted state obviates the possibility of fully realizing the prophet’s words. The citation of the verse in its full context therefore emphasizes the Jewish community’s obligation to enable complete recognition of the God of Israel, a recognition that had already begun in the slave’s consciousness from his very entry (as a slave) into the framework of a Jewish family.27 The school of Hillel’s ‘master’s taqqanah’ is therefore limited to improving the economic state of a single individual – the master. Conversely, the ‘slave’s taqqanah’ is to be understood as tiqqun ‘olam, for its objective is not the improvement of the situation of an individual, but the improvement of the entire world in its relationship with God. Nonetheless we do not find here a sweeping demand for manumission, since an individual whose legal status is clearly defined – whether as an entirely free person or a full slave – may observe the commandments (or be entirely exempt from them).28 According to the school of Shammai, the wider meanings of tiqqun ‘olam will be completely realized only through activating the other meaning of the term, that is through the legal action of making rulings, taqqanot.29 Producing the tiqqun as the school of Shammai propose, as opposed to the stance of the 27. For another suggestion that a Canaanite slave working in a Jewish family is actually on his way into Jewish culture: bYeb. 48b. 28. For another dispute between the schools of Hillel and Shammai as an expression of positions that regard the commandment to be fruitful and multiply as a realization of the idea of populating the world, see e.g. mYeb. 6:6, expanded and applied to gentiles and slaves in bYeb. 62a. For discussions: J. Cohen (as in n. 13), pp. 144–65; Judith Hauptman, Rereading the Rabbis: A Woman’s Voice (Boulder, Colorado, 1998), pp. 130–40. An additional pericope can be found in bNid. 3b. 29. See n. 2 above.

t i q q u n ‘o l a m i n t h e m i s h n a h | 2 9 5 school of Hillel – ie making a taqqanah which forces the master to free the slave and bring about his complete incorporation into the community as a free man – this is what will bring about all the meanings of tiqqun in the language of the rabbis. From this it becomes clear that the primary use of the term tiqqun ‘olam is as a mechanism for ensuring that the commandment to populate the world should be carried out within the halakhah. This requires coming to a clear legal definition of the status of each person: a free man, a slave or a woman, as we shall see.

Expressions of the early understanding of tiqqun ‘olam in taqqanot and other laws The conceptual idea we identified in the dispute between the schools of Hillel and Shammai, according to which tiqqun ‘olam means populating the world, is also expressed in laws regarding a woman whose state of divorce is uncertain. Here too, the objective of the laws was to define the personal legal status of individuals in transitional states in order to enable the fulfillment of the commandment to procreate.30 The relevant portions of mGittin are: 4:1–2 (the taqqanot of Rabban Gamaliel the elder); 3 (the witnesses who sign the get, or writ of divorce); and 7–8 (disputes regarding the permissibility of remarriage after varying circumstances of divorce). The purpose of these laws is to prevent divorce and the dissolution of the family or, conversely, to ensure proper divorce. In each case, the law seeks to achieve a clear legal status for the woman, thereby enabling her to marry any man and  bear children within a proper marriage. As a married woman she may continue to bear children in her current family, while as a divorcee she may establish a new family without the danger of her children being born with the status of mamzer (illegitimate child). The clarification of a woman’s legal status and her eligibility for re-marriage does not stem from a concern for her tragic situation. It derives from possible doubt that her child may have the status of mamzer. This clarification is essential to ensure that her child will be able

30. In order to preserve the strength of the aristocracy, Augustus’ reforms were also strengthening the family unit among the freedmen, while increasing the birthrate among the elite classes. Here, too, we discern a similarity between the needs of the Roman and the Jewish cultures.

296 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es to join the community. Thus the amora’im give various reasons given for Rabban Gamaliel’s taqqanah (yGit. 4:2, 45c) on a get delivered by a messenger: Does this not disagree with R Simeon b Laqish, since R Simeon b Laqish said nobody can annul an agency by word of mouth? Explain it in a fully constituted court: because of tiqqun ‘olam.   There are those who say in the name of R. Simeon b. Laqish: It is so that the woman may not have to bear illegitimate children [mamzerim]. And there are those who say in the name of R. Simeon b. Laqish, ‘It is so that the woman may not have to remain an abandoned wife [agunah = neither divorced nor wed].’   The person who said that the reason is that she should not have to sit abandoned [means] that she may think that he (her husband) had annulled it (the get), [so that she is still a married woman, not free to remarry] whereas in fact he (her husband) had not annulled it (the get) [so that in fact she has been properly divorced]. That is why she will remain in the status of an abandoned wife.   The person who said it is in order that she should not turn out to produce mamzerim [means] that she may think that the get has not been annulled, [so that she is now unmarried and free to remarry,] while the husband has in fact anulled the get. Consequently, she may go and remarry without having received a get, with the result that her children by the second marriage will be mamzerim. [Along these same lines, if] the wife thinks that the husband has anulled the get, when he has not done so, someone else may come along and betroth her, with the consequence that the betrothal is valid. But she will imagine that the betrothal is not valid. She will wait until the first husband dies, and then go and marry someone else [while the betrothal of the second party stands], and the children [with the third party] will turn out to be mamzerim. [Translation based on Jacob Neusner, The Talmud of the Land of Israel, (Chicago, 1982) and H.W. Guggenheimer Jerusalem Talmud (Berlin/New York 2007).]

In both cases (‘possible agunah status’ and ‘possible mamzer status’) the woman is subject to abuse by her husband, who does not permit her to establish a new family. The implications of her possible agunah status were not pertinent only to the woman herself, because in practice this status prevents her from establishing a family and having children – so procreation is prevented. The situation is even more straightforward for possible mamzer status. Here her husband’s actions affect the woman’s children (and also the new husband, for the woman considers herself to be unfettered and causes him to be an adulterer). Thus in both cases the husband creates an obstacle that adversely affected not only the woman’s life, but also the wider society. Possible mamzer status is accepted as the primary reason for the taqqanah in the continuation of the passage:

t i q q u n ‘o l a m i n t h e m i s h n a h | 2 9 7 R. Mana said, ‘I came up with a caravan, and I heard R. Jacob bar Aha and R. Immi in the name of R. Laqish [state], ‘It is so that she should not produce mamzerim.’ R. Huna said, ‘Even the one who said [that the reason is that] she should not remain an agunah also has in mind that she should not risk producing illegitimate children.’ [trans. based on Guggenheimer]

R. Huna’s position is presented at the end of the pericope as the final word. Thus we can conclude that the initial stage of understanding the concept tiqqun ‘olam was expressed as increasing the community’s efforts to procreate. However, for the amora’im, simply realizing the human reproductive potential is insufficient, since ‘culture’ is created through social organization and not by the actions of individuals. In order to create ‘culture,’ the children must be constituents of a social framework based upon a given worldview. In rabbinical Jewish culture, this leads to the importance of the legitimate family. The halakhic implementation of the initial stage of the concept tiqqun ‘olam is therefore focused on the clarification of the personal legal status of individuals, in order to allow them to establish families within the community, and realize the commandment of populating the world.31

Broadening the means of realizing tiqqun ‘olam in order to populate the world in the Ushah generation Two taqqanot from the Ushah generation (c. 140–170 CE) – one on the redemption of captives, and another on their escape (4:6) – expand the scope of the idea of populating the world. The threat of captivity was very real in antiquity.32 The problem seems to have intensified as a result of the two Revolts.33 In addition, this period was characterized by economic hardship especially following the Hadrianic edicts. Widespread destruction and expropriation of land and heavy taxation severely depleted Jewish society in Eretz Israel. They also affected rabbinic halakhot on the redemption of captives and helping them escape; the latter are found in our mishnah. In contrast

31. On these taqqanot see Panken (as in n. 25), pp. 70–7. 32. Mordechai A. Friedman, ‘The Ransom Clause of the Jewish Marriage’, in Gratz College Anniversary Volume. On the Occasion of the Seventy-Fifth Anniversary of the Founding of the College. 1895–1970, by Isidore David Passow, Samuel Tobias Lachs, vol. 1 (Philadelphia, 1971), p. 63. 33. Evidence of this exists in Complete Works of Josephus, vol. 9 (Cleveland/New York), pp. 338–9.

298 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es to other tannaitic sources,34 the halakhot in the tiqqun ‘olam unit reflect the limitation of efforts to redeem captives or help them escape: You do not ransom captives for more than their money value because of tiqqun ‘olam   You do not help captives escape because of tiqqun ‘olam   Rabban Shimon b. Gamaliel (Rashbag) says [As a precaution] for the good of the captives. (Git. 4:6) [based on tr. Danby]

S. Lieberman35 believes that the first section of our mishnah can be attributed to Rashbag, as demonstrated by the baraita in bKetubot 42a:36 If a woman was taken captive and held ransom for up to ten times her value, he must ransom her the first time. Subsequently he ransoms her only if he desires to do so, but is not required to ransom her.   Rashbag ruled: Captives must not be ransomed for more than their value because of tiqqun ‘olam.

The meaning of tiqqun ‘olam in the limitation on the redemption of captives becomes clear in bKetubot 45a:37 The question was raised: Does this prevention of abuses relate to the burden which may be imposed on the community or to the possibility that the activities [of bandits] may be encouraged?

The gemara asks whether the reason is to ensure that the high price of their redemption will not fall on the public, or whether it is intended to end the temptation to kidnap members of the community. It responds: Come and hear: Levi b. Darga ransomed his daughter for thirteen thousand denarii of gold. Said Abaye: But are you sure that he acted with the consent of the rabbis? Perhaps he acted against the will of the rabbis.

The ‘Come and hear’ proposes a tentative assumption (hava amina) based on the deed of Levi b. Darga, who paid an exorbitant sum to redeem his 34. See, for example, mKet. 2:5–9, 4:8–9. For a detailed analysis of these enactments, see S. Lushi (=S. Mor), Halakhot Shevuyah ba-Korpusim ha-Tanna’im ke-Even Bohan le-Sulam ‘Arakhim be’Olamam shel Hakhamim (MA, Hebrew University of Jerusalem) (Jerusalem, 1999), pp. 11–16, 31–43 (in Hebrew). 35. Lieberman (as in n. 5), p. 837. 36. For variant wording see: Talmud Bavli ‘im shinuyei nushaot (Ketubot. A) (Babylonian Talmud with manuscript variations, Ketubot A), Jerusalem (Jerusalem, 1972), pp. 285–6. 37. This taqqanah was reinterpreted in light of the reality of life in the Jewish communities of Babylon, whose members were at times imprisoned and held for ransom. Despite the differing historical circumstances of the two communities – in Palestine and in Babylon – the similarity of the challenges posed to the Jewish communities by imprisonment enables us to use the Talmuds’ interpretation to understand the rationale underlying the mishnaic taqqanot.

t i q q u n ‘o l a m i n t h e m i s h n a h | 2 9 9 daughter. This would seem to provide a basis for redeeming captives beyond their worth, should a private person wish to do so, since if the reason for the taqqanah was the danger of kidnapping, an individual would also be forbidden to redeem captives for large sums. Therefore when there is no private person to pay for redemption, and the duty resides with the community, redemption is prohibited. This tentative assumption was rejected by Abaye, who raises the possibility that Levi b. Darga redeemed his daughter in contravention of the rabbis’ opinion. This example thus leaves us with no evidence that the rabbis distinguished between the individual and the community regarding redemption, or that the point of the taqqanah is preventing a burden on the community. There is therefore another reason for the taqqanah, which does not relate merely to the financial aspect (of removing the financial burden from the community). Moreover, while the pericope reflects the reality of the amoraic period in Babylonia, the reasoning is also an accurate representation of the reality of the Ushah generation after the destruction following the Bar Kokhba rebellion – many captives needing redemption, and impoverished communities, leaving scant resources for ransoming. Preventing exorbitant ransom payments, while neglecting the captive, does constitute an attempt to change the reality at its core – it makes it less worthwhile to carry out the kidnapping. The goal of the taqqanah is to prevent future reduction of the population of the community even at the expense of the most recent captive. Therefore, Rashbag defines the goal of the taqqanah as tiqqun ‘olam – both in the demographic sense of preventing a reduction of the community’s human capital, and in terms of the broad goal of the taqqanah, namely, giving priority to the community as the civilizing structure that populates the world, over the wellbeing of the individual. If this understanding is correct, the taqqanah regarding the redemption of captives may reflect a preliminary step in the further expansion of the concept of tiqqun ‘olam. On the one hand, the goal of the taqqanah is to lead to the freedom of the individual, thus ensuring tiqqun ‘olam in the sense of populating it with Jews. On the other hand, the taqqanah does not attempt to clarify the personal legal status of any one individual, but views the change that it will engender as a condition that will assure the future freedom of all members of the community, leading ultimately to tiqqun ‘olam. There is a significant modification of the term’s meaning here, namely identification of

30 0 | jou r na l of j ew ish st u di e s the world (‘olam) with the Jewish community, so that the role of tiqqun ‘olam is to assure the survival, wellbeing and social functioning of the community. Thus in the Ushah generation the conception of tiqqun ‘olam expands from attempts to clarify legal and personal status for populating the world to other conditions for advancing this goal.

Helping captives escape and tiqqun ‘olam: conceptual differences between the Ushah generation and the Mishnaic redactor Changes were clearly introduced into the laws about captives and into the concept of tiqqun ‘olam as a whole, by the Mishnaic redactor and creator of the tiqqun ‘olam unit in mGittin. This is seen, for example, in the halakhah dealing with the subject of helping captives escape, which also appears in tGittin 3:6: Mishnah Gittin 4:6

Tosefta Gittin 3:6

You do not ransom captives for more than their money value because of tiqqun ‘olam You do not help captives to escape because of tiqqun ‘olam Rabban Shimon b. Gamaliel (Rashbag) says: [as a precaution] for the good of the captives. [based on Danby’s tr.]

You do not swallow gold denarii in wartime, because of danger to life. Rabban Shimon b Gamaliel says: You do not help captives to escape [as a precaution] for the good of captives.

Epstein38 concluded that the ‘good of the captives,’ according to Rashbag, is no more than a rationalization of a known halakhah. Epstein based this on the interpretation of Rashbag in the Palestinian Talmud: ‘so that they should not be tied in chains’,39 claiming that the first Tanna and Rashbag agreed, except for a linguistic disagreement that had nothing to do with content. With regard to the wording of the Babylonian Talmud that asks what the 38. Jacob N. Epstein, Mevo’ot Lesifrut Hatannaim (Jerusalem, 1957), p. 166 (in Hebrew). 39. See also Lieberman (as in n. 5), p. 837.

t i q q u n ‘o l a m i n t h e m i s h n a h | 3 01 difference is between them, he explained that the first Tanna refers to a situation where only one captive remains in captivity following the attempt to help captives escape – captives who in the future will pay the price of their rescue – whereas Rashbag refers to ‘captives’ in the plural. According to Epstein’s interpretation of Rashbag, if only one captive would remain in enemy hands, his companions may be freed, but this is not the case in a situation when several would remain.40 Similarly, Albeck emphasizes41 that according to the Tosefta, Rashbag stated that just as one may not swallow gold coins during a war, so is one forbidden to help captives escape.42 On the dispute in question, he suggests43 that the difference between the first Tanna and Rashbag was not one of halakhah but of language, since the first Tanna refers to tiqqun ‘olam while Rashbag refers to taqqanat hashevuyyin – ‘the good of captives’. Lieberman, in contrast, identifies Rashbag as the author of both the Mishnaic enactments,44 which strengthens my proposal that the first Tanna’s assertion in the mishnah constitutes not only a linguistic dispute with Rashbag, but also reflects the editing of the tiqqun ‘olam unit in the Mishnah, which converts the taqqanah from one ‘regarding helping captives escape’ into a taqqanah ‘for the sake of tiqqun ‘olam’. I propose that Rashbag not only interprets the reason for the taqqanah, but is also its author. Indeed, the two halakhot as they appear in the Tosefta are attributed to Rashbag. In contrast with the taqqanah on the redemption of captives, the prohibition on helping captives escape does not change reality from the core, assure the return of captives into the heart of the community, or prevent future capture and enslavement. Thus this taqqanah does not lead to the population of the world in the long term, and should not be termed a taqqanah for the sake of tiqqun ‘olam in Rashbag’s opinion, but only ‘a taqqanah for the sake of captives’. The editor of the unit included Rashbag’s two taqqanot prohibiting redemption and helping captives escape, but altered them, based on his conception of tiqqun ‘olam. The first taqqanah is included without Rashbag’s name, since it conforms to his concept of tiqqun ‘olam. In his eyes, the human resources 40. Ibid., loc. cit. 41. Hanoch Albeck, Mehqarim beBeraita uveTosefta (Jerusalem, 1944), p. 145. 42. Regarding the danger, see Lieberman (as in n. 5), pp. 836–7. 43. Albeck (as in n. 41), p. 45, note 1; ibid., Shisha Sidrei Mishna (Nashim) (Jerusalem/Tel Aviv, 1959), p. 400. 44. Albeck’s comments on the Tosefta also support this position.

302 | jou r na l of j ew ish st u di e s of the community were not merely the result of natural increase, but were also a result of a deliberate preservation of these human resources within the community. Thus obviously reduction of the number of captives by making it less worthwhile to hold them was part of the efforts of the community to preserve and enlarge its human resources, in order to populate the world. However, because the editor disagreed with Rashbag’s position and believed that even the taqqanah forbidding attempted rescue should be included with the tiqqun ‘olam taqqanot (possibly because the mishaic editor’s opinion was that decrease of the attempts of any sort to release captives made it not worthwhile for their captors to hold them), he included them in this mishnah with some modifications: (a) He replaced the original substantiation for the taqqanah (‘for the sake of captives’) with one consistent with his method – tiqqun ‘olam. (b) He stated it as an anonymous position in order to increase its authority. (c) He introduced Rashbag’s position, but worded it as the position of a single individual who disagrees with the position of the first Tanna. In this way, Rashbag’s position was devalued relative to that of the first Tanna, which blends into the unit as a composite, and appears as the organic theoretical continuation of previous halakhot predicated on tiqqun ‘olam, or dealing with captivity (4:4) and contact with the non-Jewish nations (4:6, 9). This manoeuvre created the impression that it was a different Tanna (representing the obligatory halakhah) who taught the two halakhot, one of which Rashbag disagreed with. However, from the Tosefta and the baraita the reverse is apparent – it is Rashbag who introduces both taqqanot and the editor who disagrees with one of them. The editing is therefore tendentious, its goal being to give greater weight to the editor’s method, concealed within the position of the first Tanna. The dispute in the taqqanah about the escape of captives stipulates a shorter time-frame for the earliest change in the concept of tiqqun ‘olam. Rashbag and his generation do not view the taqqanah as an expression of tiqqun ‘olam, and therefore it is named only after the concrete problem that it addresses: ‘for the good of captives.’ The words of the first Tanna expose a new ideational concept that views the ‘world’ – ‘olam – as a term referring to the Jewish community as a ‘cultural’ expression in the sense of a civilization. This position converts the expression tiqqun ‘olam from halakhic legislation concerned

t i q q u n ‘o l a m i n t h e m i s h n a h | 3 0 3 only with the population of the world to legislation aimed at ensuring the continued existence and functioning of Jewish society as a culture with material and spiritual characteristics, and as ‘settling the world’ – meyashevet ‘olam. It views this taqqanah as an additional expression of the idea reflected in the various laws regarding redemption of captives, namely, protection of community members and property.45

Additional evidence of changes in the conception of tiqqun ‘olam at the end of the Mishnaic period Further evidence of changes that took place in the conception of tiqqun ‘olam during the period of R. Judah HaNasi can be seen in R. Jose’s formulation regarding the marriage contract (ketubah) in tKetubot 12:1–2: (a) At first, when [property set aside for payment of] her marriage-contract (ketubah) was in her father’s hands, it was a light thing in his [the husband’s] view to divorce her. … (b) You do not make a marriage-contract for a woman based on movable property, for the sake of tiqqun ‘olam.

The first halakhah presents the taqqanah of Shimon b. Shetah, that all of the husband’s possessions are a guarantee for the woman’s ketubah.46 The Tosefta provides the reason: ‘At first … it was a light thing in his view to divorce her.’ From the pericope in bKet. 56b, it seems that the second halakhah was ruled following the trend started by Shimon b. Shetah. The Talmud presents tiqqun ‘olam here as rendering the woman’s ketubah as property with a fixed value, as opposed to moveable property subject to devaluation, which may not cover the payment of the ketubah. The fall in value of property in the ketubah could return the situation to its original status, and make the woman’s divorce ‘light’ in her husband’s eyes.47 As with the taqqanah of Shimon b. Shetah, the goal of this taqqanah is to prevent a situation where it is easy for 45. As suggested above, this may have been because the mishaic editor’s opinion was that decrease of the attempts of any sort to release captives made it not worthwhile for their captors to hold them. These taqqanot, then, give priority to the long-term welfare of the community. 46. On the term ‘reponsibility’ see Berachyahu Lifshitz, ‘On Surety and the Terminology of Undertaking’, Shnaton Ha-Mishpat Ha-Ivri 13 (1987), pp. 194–7. 47. L.M. Epstein, The Jewish Marriage Contract: A Study in the Status of Woman in Jewish Law (New York, 1973), pp. 22–3; B.S. Jackson, ‘Problems in the Development of the Ketubah Payment: The Shimon Ben Shetah Tradition’, in Rabbinic Law in the Roman and Near Eastern Context, ed. C. Hezser (Tübingen, 2003), pp. 199–225.

304 | jou r na l of j ew ish st u di e s the husband to divorce her. Similarly to the halakhot of tiqqun ‘olam from the Ushah generation (mGit. 4:7–8), the goal of this taqqanah, employing an economic sanction, is to deter the husband from a hasty divorce, which would break up the family and prevent tiqqun ‘olam, population of the world. It is in this context that the redactor understands R. Jose in bKetubot 56b: R. Meir taught: Anyone who gives a virgin less than 200 [zuz], and a widow less than a maneh, is engaging in prostitution.   R. Jose ruled: It is permitted.   R. Judah ruled: If the man wished he may write out for a virgin a bond for 200 zuz while she writes for him, ‘I have received from you a maneh’; and [he may write a bond] for a widow for a maneh while she writes for him, ‘I have received from you 50 zuz’. Is R. Jose then of the opinion that ‘one is permitted [to contract such a marriage]’? This surely is contrary [to the following:] A woman’s ketubah may not be made [a charge on] movable property, for the sake of tiqqun ‘olam. R. Jose said: What is meant by tiqqun ‘olam? Their price, surely, is not fixed and they deteriorate in value. Now, did not the first Tanna also say that [a ketubah] may not be made [a charge on movable property]? Did he not therefore mean to say: This applies only where he accepted no responsibility; but where he accepted responsibility [the ketubah] may be made [a charge upon them].   R. Jose then came to question: Even if he did accept responsibility how [could the ketubah be] made [a charge upon them] when their price, surely, is not fixed and they deteriorate in value? Now, if there, where the diminution in value [of the movables] is only a possibility, R. Jose provides against it, would he not do so even more here where the diminution [of the ketubah] is a certainty? – How now! There she did not know it to think of surrendering her rights; but here she was well aware [of the fact] and has definitely surrendered her rights.

The redactor wonders whether R. Jose really believed that a man may decrease the value of the ketubah, and relates to a baraita similar to our Tosefta. In order to resolve the similarity created between the words of R. Jose in the Tosefta and the first Tanna in this baraita, the redactor accounts for the difference between them based on the question of whether the husband took responsibility (on the movables) or not. Regarding the interpretation of the redactor, the first Tanna believes that if the husband takes responsibility, the ketubah is made a charge on movable property. R. Jose then asks why, since once the husband takes responsibility for movable property, ‘their price … is not fixed, and they deteriorate in value.’ In other words, even in a case where the movables are not lost, their value is likely to deteriorate, and they do not guarantee the sum of the ketubah. The redactor then goes on to ask: if

t i q q u n ‘o l a m i n t h e m i s h n a h | 3 0 5 there (in the baraita), where the devaluation is only a theoretical possibility, R. Jose provides against it, would he not be even more likely to adopt a similar course here where the devaluation of the ketubah is a certainty? The gemara rejects this solution, and explains the discrepancy with R. Jose’s opinion regarding the woman’s consent to surrender her rights. In the Tosefta baraita, when the husband gave the movables, the wife was unaware that their value would decrease and she would have to surrender her rights to them. Since she did not do so, the husband was guilty of misleading her. Here, however, in a case where she knows and surrenders knowingly, R. Jose believes that he is permitted from the outset to decrease from the written sum. According to the gemara in Ketubot, the goal of tiqqun ‘olam is therefore to ensure the existence of the family, in keeping with the ancient meaning of tiqqun ‘olam, and in the manner that R. Jose understands it. It is likely, however, that R. Jose understood tiqqun ‘olam in keeping with its new meaning. This way of understanding of R. Jose’s  words transpires from a comparison of the passage in the Tosefta with other passages of this halakhah and those that follow it, which deal with the financial arrangements parallel to the cluster of tiqqun ‘olam halakhot in Gittin 5:1–3, and not in comparison to the taqqanah of Shimon b. Shetah, found in the preceding halakhah. This interpretation also follows from R. Jose’s word-choice in the baraita in bGittin 51a: This is a point on which tannaim also differed, as it has been taught: Indemnification for produce consumed and for betterment of land and [outlay] for maintenance of widow and daughters cannot be enforced from property on which there is a lien, for the sake of tiqqun ‘olam, since they are not written in any deed. R. Jose said: Why is this considered tiqqun ‘olam, since seeing that they are not fixed?

This baraita, its transposition in the Tosefta to a context other than that of Shimon b. Shetah’s enactment, and the context in which it appears in the pericope in the Babylonian Talmud, led Lieberman to state the following:48 See the interpretation in bGittin 56b, as well as the rishonim there regarding pericopes in Ch.2b. However, according to the straightforward meaning of the baraita and according to the continuation, it appears that in Eretz Israel ‘for the sake of tiqqun ‘olam’ was understood as ‘a taqqanah for the sake of buyers’, in the ordinary sense. And according to the first Tanna, movables are not used 48. Tosefta Kifshutah: Ketubot (as in n. 5), p. 370.

30 6 | jou r na l of j ew ish st u di e s as the basis of a ketubah even if the husband takes responsibility, lest the buyers rely on the movables (which he cannot sell or keep as savings), and they buy lands allocated to a ketubah, and meanwhile lose the movables. R. Jose said: ‘What tiqqun ‘olam is there here?’ since one way or another, no one will agree to something that fluctuates, and this is the wording of bGittin 51a.

If so, then tiqqun ‘olam again does not reflect the original meaning of populating the world, but rather assuring society’s economic viability through guaranteeing commerce – ‘a taqqanah for the sake of buyers’ – in Lieberman’s words. According to this understanding, the goal of the taqqanah is to prevent economic life from stopping due to buyers’ avoidance of purchasing real estate for fear that it will be taken by a woman when the movables on which her ketubah is based are reduced in value or rendered valueless. The taqqanah therefore stipulates that the ketubah should not be based on property whose value fluctuates, but rather on real estate, since the buyer cannot be sure that the land he has bought will not be mortgaged against the ketubah. R. Jose, however, wonders what need there is for the taqqanah, since one way or another, buyers will not rely on this, and writing a ketubah based on responsibility for the property will not resolve the problem. In order to understand the baraita properly, it is therefore important to distinguish between the two layers which comprise it. The earlier layer is the halakhah which determines that the ketubah is not based on moveable property. The later layer is R. Jose’s reservation regarding the halakhah. The tiqqun ‘olam in the halakhah itself should be understood based on the earlier conception of tiqqun ‘olam, namely an economic sanction, similar to the sanction found in the taqqanah of Shimon b. Shetah, and also those sanctions whose purpose is to deter (mGittin 4:7–8.), whose goal is to ensure the existence of the family for purposes of reproduction. In contrast, the reservation of R. Jose, understood in various ways in the Babylonian Talmud, sometimes in keeping with the early conception of tiqqun ‘olam (Ketubot), and sometimes in keeping with the later conception (Gittin) reflects the transitional stage between them, in which the early conception has not been entirely displaced by the new. Moreover, R. Jose was a student at Sepphoris, and in a number of places it says that he even adopted Rabbi’s approach.49 If this is so, it is probable that his understanding is presented in bGittin as representing the group in which the later conception of tiqqun ‘olam took shape – in the environment of Rabbi. 49. Epstein (as in n. 38), p. 126.

t i q q u n ‘o l a m i n t h e m i s h n a h | 3 0 7 The change that gave the concept tiqqun ‘olam its particular overtones as a term referring to the Jewish community, enabled an expansion of the content of the argument ‘for the sake of tiqqun ‘olam’ and its application to new realms not included in earlier conceptions.50 This led to the expansion of the concept of tiqqun ‘olam, primarily by the editor of the textual unit in the Mishnah, in the circle of R. Judah HaNasi and perhaps even that of his sons. At this point, tiqqun is perceived as pointing to a variety of means, the goal of which is to ensure the existence of the world, ie the Jewish community, as a civilization with a defined nationaland religious character. The activity of the redactor of the tiqqun ‘olam textual unit stands out particularly in the application of tiqqun ‘olam to early halakhot, which were not originally created for this purpose. These halakhot were removed from their original context and edited  – whether in full or in a shortened version – into the unit in Gittin, including tacking the phrase ‘for the sake of tiqqun ‘olam’ onto the halakhic clusters created. This happened with the halakhah ‘the witnesses sign on the divorce document’ 51 – the original appears in tGittin 6:9 or in mGittin 9:4–5 – and Hillel’s prozbul taqqanah (originally in mShevi’it, ch. 10), which I shall use as an example. The prozbul is an ancient taqqanah. The wording in Gittin – ‘Hillel enacted the prozbul’ – points to the existence of the taqqanah as a known law, sending us to its original context in ch. 10 of mShevi’it, where the laws of prozbul are enumerated. Moreover, in mShevi’it 10:3, which tells of the chain of events in the enactment of the prozbul, they are not substantiated ‘for the sake of tiqqun ‘olam’, but as follows: this is one of the things enacted by Hillel the Elder: when he saw that the people refrained from giving loans to one another and transgressed what is written in the Torah, as it is written: ‘Take heed lest there be a base thought in your heart [… and your eye be hostile to your poor brother, and you give him nothing]’, Hillel ordained the prozbul.52

50. The identification of ‘olam with the Jewish community is reflected in additional texts that do not relate expressly to tiqqun ‘olam. See Saul Lieberman, Al Bituiim asher be-Seridim mi-Sefer haMa’asim, Mehqarim be-Torat Eretz Israel, in Studies in Palestinian Talmudic Literature, ed. David Rosenthal (Jerusalem, 1991), pp. 280–2. 51. For various explanations given regarding the redactor’s intervention in this halakhah, see Judith Hauptman, ‘Mishna Gittin as a Pietistic Document’, Tenth World Congress of Jewish Studies, Division C, vol. 1 (Jerusalem, 1990); Jacob N. Epstein, ‘Talmudical Miscellanies, A. Qaima-Tanya u™siq _ ¥pøuesiq, Tarbiz (3), 1932, pp. 110–11. 52. See Panken (as in n. 25), pp. 192–8.

308 | jou r na l of j ew ish st u di e s From this, it appears that the prozbul taqqanah was not originally understood as ‘for the sake of tiqqun ‘olam’. However, with the ideational expansion of the concept of tiqqun ‘olam, during the various stages of the redaction of the Mishnah, the redactor saw the goal of expanding the prozbul taqqanah as an example of a new aspect of his viewpoint. He therefore inserted a ‘comment’ suggesting that the prozbul taqqanah was also instituted for the sake of tiqqun ‘olam, and saw no need to relocate it to Gittin.53 These activities on the part of the redactor caused the original meaning of tiqqun ‘olam to fade, and placed instead a solid new total concept, backed up by additional complementary halakhic clusters. The halakhot containing the original meaning of tiqqun ‘olam – population of the world through procreation – constitute only a first layer within this new conception. Further layers were added, whose goal was to ensure conditions for the proper existence and conduct of community life. The value most important in the concept of tiqqun ‘olam is the community’s physical ability to exist. This order of priorities pushed aside formerly leading ideas and values for their own sake, viewing them as secondary goals, only relative to the goal of communal survival as a civilization, the condition for the fulfillment of tiqqun ‘olam.

Conclusions The concept of tiqqun ‘olam originated around the end of the Second Temple period. This term first appears in a dispute between Bet Shammai and Bet Hillel on the question of a half-slave: (mGittin 4:5). It appears to have been created in parallel with other perspectives from the inner world of Jewish culture (be fruitful and increase) and in parallel with legislation outside that world.54 The first element of the concept was a widening of the personal legal status of individuals in the Jewish community, and the entrance of women and emancipated slaves. It ensured that they would be able to establish families according to the halakhah, and to bring children (who would not be considered mamzerim) into the world in order to populate it. This conception began to change during the Ushah period as a result of the harsh political, demographical and economic conditions which followed the 53. So that they are also part of the halakhot mGittin 5:1–3. 54. See nn. 18, 30 above.

t i q q u n ‘o l a m i n t h e m i s h n a h | 3 0 9 Bar-Kokhba revolt. At the time, ensuring a viable birth-rate was still regarded as the central facet of tiqqun ‘olam, and the critical importance of this issue must be understood against the background of the needs of Jewish society in Palestine after two wars. However, the continuing existence of this society was not seen as being solely dependent on the size of its population. Other measures were required in order to ensure its survival, and it is clear that the rabbis gave a relatively great weight to favourable economic conditions. Many halakhot from this time regulate the financial obligations between spouses; debtors and creditors, etc. Although tiqqun ‘olam in its original meaning is barely used during this period, the response of Rabban Shimon ben Gamaliel to the regulations in tiqqun ‘olam (Mishnah Gittin 4:4), and especially his mention of the use of the term by the rabbis of the time (particularly in sources outside the tiqqun ‘olam unit of the Mishnah, regarding a woman’s ketubah, tKetubot 12:2) point to the beginnings of a change in the way this generation perceived the term. The main change came at the end of the Mishnaic period, with the editing of the tiqqun ‘olam unit by R. Judah haNasi and his disciples. The earlier determination that ‘olam referred to Jewish society, brought about a continuing extension of the areas to which the idea of tiqqun should be applied. At this point, tiqqun was perceived as an expanding field of measures to ensure the existence of Jewish society as a culture of settlement with very clear and well-defined religious and national characteristics. As a result, regulations and halakhot that were enacted by different rabbis at different times were removed from their original contexts and edited in the unit of mGittin, together with the term mipnei tiqqun ‘olam. In the new context they were endowed with a new ideological bias, which viewed the concrete confrontations reflected in them as representations of a broader aim, in accordance with Rabbi and his disciples’ perceptions of tiqqun ‘olam. This was, as noted, the strengthening of the whole collection of factors – such as human resources, protection of territory, economic resources, as well as community institutions which were continuously active, social solidarity etc. All of these together would bring about the flourishing of Jewish settlement in the Land of Israel, thus strengthening the civilization which had the responsibility of populating the world. The establishment of this new well-structured and defined unit of halakhot somewhat dimmed the original conception of tiqqun ‘olam. Instead, there is a

310 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s new, total conception of this term, focusing on the aggregate of conditions necessary for the survival and growth of Jewish society in Palestine. As a result of the changes in the perception of tiqqun ‘olam, its central significance became the primary tier of the concept about the logical priority of the conditions required to ensure the existence and growth of Jewish society; however, other layers were added. These additional layers reveal a gradual move from conditions assuring the basic survival of the community, towards the assurance of humane living conditions within it. Additional regulations emerged: some guaranteed economic activity; others concerned the social welfare of the weaker classes in the community. Still others sought to promote the stability of those social institutions which expressed its values and served as a focus for strengthening Jewish identity. Finally, there were halakhot that occupied the place between the formal area of halakhah and the informal area of community life. The purpose of these halakhot was to prevent disputes between members of the community and to ensure friendly relations between neighbours as a means of promoting social solidarity. Thus the significance of tiqqun ‘olam in reality may be related to the complex circumstances of the Jewish community during the time of Rabbi Judah HaNasi, as opposed to the utopian significance of the  term ‘olam. In contrast to utopia, where values are permanent and unchanging, the values in tiqqun ‘olam in reality have significance only in so far as they serve as an instrument for improving society. Recognition of how far the world falls short of the pure ideal resulted in a very practical attitude towards those ideals. Apparently the editor of the unit in the Mishnah felt that it was the legislator’s duty to act according to this understanding when he attempted the improvement of the world.

j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s   |   v o l .   l x i 1   |   n o .   2   |   a u t u m n 2 011

Text-preserving observations in the midrash Ruth Rabbah E lv i r a M a r t í n - C o n t r e r a s Centro de Ciencias Humanas y Sociales, Madrid

a b s t r ac t This article presents a study of the eighteen identified cases in the midrash Ruth Rabbah in which a textual detail is commented in the language of the Masorah. The identified cases deal with diverse textual features. The treatment given to these textual features in the midrash and the structure of the cases is very homogeneous. Apart from one case, all the textual information recorded in them is endorsed by the Masora. These results stress the value of the literary production of the rabbis in the reconstruction of the history of the biblical text.

T

h e p r e s e n t article offers the results of the systematic analysis of midrash Ruth Rabbah (sixth century) and the study of the identified text-preserving observations (TPOs),1 corresponding to the first stage and part of the second one of the research project ‘The Role of the Rabbinic Literature in the Textual Transmission of the Hebrew Bible’.2 This research project aims to clarify and to value the role played by the rabbis and their literary works in the transmission of the biblical text from the fixation of the text to the rise of the corpus of instructions meant to preserve the Biblical text, called Masorah (sixth–seventh centuries). In order to fulfill this objective, the whole midrashic literature prior is being analysed.

1. This term was coined during my work sessions with Professor Samely during my stay of two months at Manchester University, funded by a British Academy Visiting Fellowship (2006). The term is meant to name one of the components of the midrashic unit. A text-preserving observation consists of an exclusively meta-linguistic description of the details of the biblical text in a language or terminology similar to that known from sources on the Masora. 2. This work has been done within the frame of the research project titled ‘The Role of the Rabbinic Literature in the Textual Transmission of the Hebrew Bible’ (Ref: HUM2007-60109) within the I+D Program of the Spanish Ministry of Science and Innovation (MICINN).

31 2 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s Following the methodology3 defined and applied in this research project, the textual information gathered on the identified TPOs has been checked in the Masora Parva (MP) and Masora Magna (MM) of the main tiberian biblical manuscripts Leningrad (L), Aleppo (A), and Cairo (C), and of the Spanish biblical manuscript M1 from the Complutensian University of Madrid (M1), and in the most famous masoretic lists and collections.4 The identified TPOs are arranged according to the textual details pointed out on them. I have followed the Hebrew text of Lerner’s critical edition5 but I have also consulted Wilna’s edition, that is cited when it offers a significant variant.

The analysis 1. Counting Two TPOs with numerical information are found in this midrash.

RuthR. proem 7 The five times that the expression   appears in the Bible are counted here:                                                                                                                        3. E. Martín Contreras, ‘Rabbinic Ways of Preservation and Transmission of the Biblical Text in the Light of Masoretic Sources’ (forthcoming). 4. Ch.D. Ginsburg, The Massorah Compiled from Manuscripts, 4 vols (New York, 1975); S. Frensdorff, Ochlah W’ochlah (Hannover, 1864); F. Díaz Esteban, Sefer Oklah we Oklah (Madrid, 1975); A. Dotan, The Diqduqé hatteamim of Aharon ben Moshee ben Asher, with a Critical Edition of the Original Text from New Manuscripts (Jerusalem, 1967); S. Frensdorff, Die Massora Magna (Leipzig, 1876; New York, 1968); B. Ognibeni, La seconda parte del Sefer Oklah weOklah (Madrid/Fribourg, 1995); G.E. Weil, Massorah Gedolah iuxta codicem Leningradensem B19a (Rome, 1971); Biblia Rabbinica, a reprint of the 1525 Venice edition, ed. Jacob ben Hayyim Ibn Adoniya, introduction by Moshe Goshen Gottstein (Jerusalem, 1972). 5. M.B. Lerner, The Book of Ruth in Aggadic Literature and Midrash Ruth Rabbah (hb) (Jerusalem, 1971).

t e x t - p r e s e r v i n g i n r u t h r a bb a h | 313 The TPO is:    . After this numerical quotation, the five verses that contain the expression are given and interpreted according to the general rule enounced previously:      . This information is confirmed by the Masora. The Masora Parva (MP) of L, A and M1 says:  , ‘five times’. In the Masora Magna (MM) of M1 it is written:     , ‘this expression occurs 5 times and their references are: Gen 14:1; Is 7:1; Jer 1:3; Ruth 1:1; Esth 1:1’. These five verses are similar to those stated in the midrash. This information is also corroborated by one list in Ginsburg’s masoretic compilation6 and by the MP and MM to this verse in the Biblia Rabbinica.

RuthR. 2:16 The three times that the word is mentioned in the Bible, the three in the book of Ruth, from Ruth 1:8 to Ruth 1:12, are quoted:                                       

The TPO is:   , ‘in three places is written here [the word] : Ruth 1:8, 1:11, 1:12’. Then, the numerical information is explained through the middah ke-neged.7 The MP of A, L, and M1 stated:  , ‘three times’. One list in Ginsburg’s compilation8 endorsed the information and listed the three passages where this word is used: Ruth 1:8; 1:11; 1:12. The same three verses are pointed out in the TPO.

2. Odd spelling The unusual spelling of a word is pointed out and commented in three midrashic units.

RuthR. 2:15 The odd spelling of the imperative feminine plural of the verb  in Ruth 1:9,        , without the final heh, is stated: 6. Ginsburg, list. 185 (vol. I, p. 309). 7. Rule 27 of R. Eliezer, ‘A number of equivalent significance’; cf. G. Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash (Scotland, 1996), p. 28. 8. Ginsburg, list. 184 (vol. II, p. 610).

31 4 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s             

The TPO is:  . Then, the explanation for the lack of the heh is given. The word according to the usual spelling is given in the lemma in Wilna’s edition:    . There are various pieces of masoretic information on this word in A and in M1. The MP of A states:   , ‘twice written defective’, and the MM says:       : ‘umchena and timchena twice written defective, in Deut 31:21 and here’. The MP of M1 says:   , ‘unique and written defective’. This information is also corrobated by the MP to Ruth. 1:9 in Biblia Rabbinica. Both of them are correct. The word  appears only once in the Bible and it is written defective, but also a similar form, in Deut 31:21, is spelled without final heh.

RuthR. 2:20 The defective spelling of the feminine plural third person consecutive imperfect of verb , without the alef of the root, in Ruth 1:14, is commented:           

The TPO is:  . Afterwards, the explanation is given. The word according to the usual spelling, with alef, is given in the lemma: . In Wilna’s ms., the TPO is more explicit about the involved textual phenomenon: , ‘defective of alef ’; the word according to the usual spelling, is also given in the lemma: . This spelling is widely attested in the Masora. In the MP of A and L it is said:      , ‘twice [written] defective of alef [in the form:  and ]’. In M1 there are two MP notes. One says:   , ‘twice written in this way’, and the other one says:      , ‘the western tradition [writes it] without alef, and the eastern tradition [writes it] with alef ’. The MM of M1 states the different ways in which this word is written in the Bible:                 , ‘in one case, Ez 23:49, it is written plene of alef and yod; in [two cases,] Jer 9:17 and Ruth 1:14, defective of alef, and the rest [of the cases] is usually written with alef ’. In the MP of Biblia Rabbinica it is said:   , ‘unique written in this way in the western tradition’, and in the MM some of the spellings of the word are given:             

t e x t - p r e s e r v i n g i n r u t h r a bb a h | 315         : ‘ [is written] twice, one plene and one defective and their references are: Ruth 1:9 and Ruth 1:14, the last one is defective of alef. And once, in Jer 9:17, [is written] defective’. And finally, one list on the two cases of Ruth, Ruth 1:9 plene and Ruth 1:14 defective, is collected in Ginsburg’s compilation.9

RuthR. 7:2 10 The defective spelling of the masculine singular imperative hifil of verb ,11 without the alef of the root, in Ruth 3:15 is commented:                

The TPO states:  , ‘it is written ’, with alef.12 Then, the explanation on the word said that this writing ‘teaches that he addressed her in the masculine, that none should notice her’. In the lemma the word is given without alef. In this way the ‘discrepancy’ between the usual spelling, with alef, and the excepcional one, without alef, is pointed out. There are several masoretic notes on this word. The MP of L stated:   , ‘unique with this accent [mil‘el]’. The MP of A said:      , ‘unique defective and in feminine form’. The MP of M1 stated:    , ‘eight times written defective of alef ’. In the Biblia Rabbinica, the MP reads thus:            , ‘nine forms of the verb  are defective of alef and this [Ruth 3:15] is disputed’, and the Masorah Finalis (IV p.148) gives the instances that the hifil singular masculine of  occurs for the feminine. There are also six lists13 in Ginsburg’s compilation and two lists14 in the second part of the Sefer Oklah that give some informations on this word that amplify the notices of the MP. 9. Ginsburg, list. 406 (vol. II, p. 289). The lemma in this list is erroneous, the correct one is found in Ginsburg, vol. II, p. 764. 10. This TPO has been study deeply in my article, E. Martín-Contreras, ‘Masoretic and Rabbinic Lights on the Word , Ruth 3:15:  or ?’, Vetus Testamentum 59 (2009), pp. 257–65. 11. This word is traditionally explained as 2 f. sg. imperative qal from . I have followed the new morphological analysis suggested by taking into the account the rabbinic and masoretic evidences; cf. E. Martín-Contreras, ‘Masoretic’ (as in n. 10), p. 265. 12. The TPO is different in Wilna’s edition but the rabbinic explanation is the same:                . 13. Ginsburg, list 14c (vol. I, p. 10); Ginsburg, list 66 (vol. I, p. 166); Ginsburg, list 119b (vol. I, pp. 170–1); Ginsburg, list 158 (vol. I, p. 173); Ginsburg, list 162 (vol. I, p. 173); Ginsburg, list 337 (vol. I, pp. 494–5). 14. Ognibeni, Seconda (as in n. 4), pp. 8–9, lists 1G and 1H.

316 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s 3. Qere we la ketib RuthR. 5:13 The word , Ruth 3:5, that is not represented in the MT, is commented:                                        

The TPO is:    . Then, the explanation is given. The TPO states that the word is not written in the biblical text even though it is read, but in the lemma it is written. The MP of A says: . The MP of L and M1 state:     , ‘read but not written’. The MM of L gives one list of the words which are to be read although they are not written and this passage is among them. The phenomenon is also listed in the MM of Biblia Rabbinica to Ruth 3:15, in the Sefer Oklah (list 97 in the Frensdorf’s edition, and list 80 in Díaz Esteban’s edition), in the appendix IV of ms M115 and in Ginsburg’s compilation.16

4. Differences between ‘written’ and ‘read’ The TPOs included in this type call attention to words whose consonantal text does not agree completely with the vocalic signs attached to it. I have identified eight cases of this type in this midrash.

RuthR. proem 7 The feminine third personal pronoun   in Gen 14:7 is commented:                 

The TPO is:  . Next, the verse is explained. The word according to the reading form is stated in the lemma: . This word is a Qere Perpetuum (there is no qere notation and the vocalization of the qere is attached to the ketiv) in the Torah, except for eleven places where it is  .17 15. E. Martín-Contreras, Apéndices Masoréticos, Códice M1 de la Universidad Complutense de Madrid (Madrid, 2004), p. 107. 16. Ginsburg, list 487 (vol II, pp. 54–5). 17. Cf. Martín-Contreras, Apéndices (as in n. 15), p. 126; Ginsburg, list 113 (vol. I, p. 305).

t e x t - p r e s e r v i n g i n r u t h r a bb a h | 317 RuthR. 2:14 The word  of Ruth 1:8 is commented:                     

The TPO is:  . The word according to the reading form is written in the lemma: . The MP of M1 and L says:  .18 This word is included in one list of the Sefer Oklah (list 112 in Frensdorff’s edition, and the list 94 in Díaz Esteban’s ones) on the twenty words written with final heh which is not read. There is a similar list in Ginsburg’s compilation.19 It is also stated in the appendix IV of M120 where the listed words are just eighteen.

RuthR. 2:20 The word  of 1 Sam 17:23 is commented:                                      

The TPO is: . Afterwards, the explanation is given. The word according to the reading form is written in the lemma: . The MP of the main manuscripts has a qere note:  (A, C, M1) /  (L).

RuthR. 3:2 The word , Qoh 9:4, is commented:                                             

The TPO is:  . Then, it is given the explanation. The lemma presents the word according to the reading form: . The MP of A, L and M1 say:  . The word is enumerated in one list on the sixty-two words that have two of their consonants transposed. 18. The MP of A is not legible. 19. Ginsburg, list 34 (vol. I, p. 270). 20. Martín-Contreras, Apéndices (as in n. 15), pp. 87–8.

318 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s The list is attested in appendix IV of M1,21 in the Sefer Oklah (list 73 in Díaz Esteban’s edition) and in Ginsburg’s compilation.22

RuthR. 4:7 The word         , Est 9:27, is interpreted:                                               

The TPO is:      , ‘they took upon themselves is not written but he took upon himself’. In this way, it is pointed out the difference between the written form, in singular, and the read one, in plural. Afterwards, the explanation is given following the written form. The MP of L, A and M1 state:   . The word is collected in one list on the eighteen words lacking final waw which is read. The list is stated in appendix IV of M1,23 in the Sefer Oklah (list 119 in Frensdorff’s edition) and in Ginsburg’s compilation.24

RuthR. 7:1 The word , Ruth 3:14 is commented:                 

The TPO is:  . Then, the explanation for this extra waw is given, interpreted by gematria. The word is stated in the lemma according to the reading form: . The MP of A and M1 state: ‘superfluous waw’ (A:  , M1:     ). In L there are two MP notes: one says on the left margin of the column:  , ‘superfluous waw’, and the other on the right margin indicates the ketib-qere phenomenon with the sign like a large final nun,  .

21. Martín-Contreras, Apéndices (as in n. 15), pp. 102–4. 22. Ginsburg, list 480 (vol. II, p. 53). 23. Martín-Contreras, Apéndices (as in n. 15), pp. 96–7. 24. Ginsburg, list 146 (vol. I, p. 422).

t e x t - p r e s e r v i n g i n r u t h r a bb a h | 319 RuthR. 7:3 Three TPOs on the word          in Is 9:6 are given here,25 one on the difference between the ‘written’ and the ‘read’ and two on orthographic irregularities:26                                                                               

(1) The first TPO is:   . The word appears in the lemma according to the reading form as one word: . The word is written in the text of the principal biblical codices as one word but with a mem sofit. The MP of L, A, and M1 say:   ; there are two MP in C:    and       , ‘unique and one [verse]  (Lev 11,42)’. This word is part of one list on words written as two words but read as one. This list is stated in Ginsburg’s compilation,27 in the Sefer Oklah (list 83 in Díaz Esteban’s edition) and in appendix IV of M1.28 (2) The second TPO is on the unusual form of the letter mem in the middle of a word:      , ‘unique mem closed written in the Bible in the middle of the word’. One explanation is given to this form. I have not found any masoretic confirmation but the notice is correct according to what is written in the consonantal text of the main codices. 3) The third TPO is relative to the size of the lamed of the word:      , ‘its lamed is the largest of the Torah’. Afterwards, one explanation for the large lamed is given. One list from Ginsburg’s masoretic compilation endorses this information.29

25. In Wilna’s edition there is just one piece of information on this word:   . 26. Just the first one can be classified into this group, but I think it is better to expose them together to have all the textual information relative to this word. The difference of represented textual features will be taken into account in the conclusions. 27. Ginsburg, list 483 (vol. II, p. 54). 28. Martín-Contreras, Apéndices (as in n. 15), p. 108. 29. Ginsburg, list 226–7 (vol. I, p. 54).

32 0 | jou r na l of j ew ish st u di e s RuthR 7:10 The word , Ruth 4:5, is commented:                                                                   

The TPO is:  . Afterwards, the explanation is given. The word according to the reading form is stated in the lemma: . There are several masoretic informations on this word. The MP in M1 says:    , ‘It must be read , the yod is superfluous’. The MP of A states: , and the MP of L says:  . The word is included in one list on the fourty three words with final yod which is not read. The list can be found in the Sefer Oklah (list 127 in Frensdorff’s edition, and list 111 in Díaz Esteban’s edition) and in Ginsburg’s compilation.30 5. Variants in parallel passages RuthR. 5:1 There are two TPOs:                                                                                               

(1) The first TPO is:        . The TPO points out the use of a different words in two parallel passages: in 2Sam 23:11 but  in 1Cr 11:13. The explanation is given separately by a different rabbi. So, the TPO is similar to the masoretic notes. 30. Ginsburg, list 27 (vol. I, p. 681).

t e x t - p r e s e r v i n g i n r u t h r a bb a h | 3 21 The MM of C to 2Sam 23:11 confirms this information:       . (2) The second TPO is:                 . Then, the explanation is given. The information quoted is relative to the passages 2Sam 23:12 and 1Cr 11:14: in the first passage is written  and in the second one . This information is confirmed by one list in Ginsburg’s compilation.31

Conclusions In summary, eighteen TPOs have been identified in this midrash. They deal with different textual features, such us: counting, odd spelling, Qere we-la Ketiv, orthographic irregularities, variants in parallel passages, and the differences between ‘written’ and ‘read’, which are especially numerous. The treatment given to these textual features in the midrash and the structure of the TPO are very homogeneous.

Counting When the TPOs deal with numerical information, the occurrences of one single word or combination of words in the Bible or in one book are pointed out explicitly and in one case reinforced by the term . After the numerical quotation, the localization is given listing the biblical verses.

Odd spelling In the three TPOs dealing with the unusual spelling of a word, the textual details are pointed out with the term . The odd spelling of the three words is related to the defective spelling of one letter, and in two of them (RuthR. 2:20, 7:2) the defective letter is part of the root. In RuthR. 2:20 and in 2:15 according to Wilna’s edition, the word is written in the lemma according to its usual spelling. 31. Ginsburg, list 384 (vol. II, p. 352).

322 | jou r na l of j ew ish st u di e s Qere we-la Ketiv The only TPO of this type uses the same terminology that is employed in the Masora to point out this phenomenom,   . In the lemma, the word is written.

Orthographic irregularities The two TPOs of this type use a terminology specifically masoretic: ,  ,  . Also the way in which the information is expressed is more similar to that of the Masora.

Variants in parallel passages The way to record the variants is to quote the two biblical verses or just the two words that change, pointing out the contrast by the formula  .

Differences between ‘written’ and ‘read’ Two ways are used to point out this difference in this midrash: 1. Through the technique en ketiv kan ella,32 once. The two forms are shown in opposition: first, the reading form which is excluded because it is not what is written in the biblical consonantal text (   ) and second, the written form ( ) that is confirmed and followed in the explanation. 2. Through the term , in seven instances. The structure of these cases uses to be: (1) The word according to the reading form is given when the lemma is cited; (2) The TPO points out the written form of the word. These differences are marked in the MT with the ketib-qere phenomenon in all the cases. The terminology used to point out the diverse textual features is not as varied as themselves. The most frequent term is , in eleven of the 32. This technique is used to point out what is written in the Bible in opposition to other more expected forms of saying it, and yet not written. Cf. E. Martín-Contreras, ‘Rethinking Hermeneutical Techniques: Suggestions from their Practice’, Henoch 25 (2003), pp. 88–9.

t e x t - p r e s e r v i n g i n r u t h r a bb a h | 3 23 nineteen TPOs. It is used to point out the counting, the odd spelling and the differences between ‘written’ and ‘read’. Apart from three TPOs, RuthR. 2:14, RuthR. 7:3 on the difference between the ‘written’ and the ‘read’, and the the first TPO of RuthR. 5:1, the rest of the TPOs has an explanation. This explanation could be of the textual feature, for instance RuthR. 2:15, or be based on it to give a new meaning to the biblical quotation. The three cases without explanation are similar to the characteristic masoretic notes. Apart from one TPO, RuthR. 7:3 on the form of the mem, all the textual information recorded in the TPOs is endorsed by the Masora.

j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s   |   v o l .   l x i 1   |   n o .   2   |   a u t u m n 2 011

When was the Talmud burnt at Paris? A critical examination of the Christian and Jewish sources and a new dating: June 1241 P a u l L aw r e n c e R o s e P e n n s y lva n i a S t a t e U n i v e r s i t y

a b s t r ac t  Both the month and year of the first burning of the Talmud at Paris in the 1240s have so far been seen as uncertain and subject to various datings. This article argues that the traditionally accepted dates of 1242 and 1244 are largely unfounded. Even if 1242 falls within the window of time 1241–3 that is constrained by the evidence, other factors render it unlikely. 1244, on the other hand, falls outside the window of possibility. A full critical consideration of both the Christian and Jewish sources leads to the conclusion that the most probable date is June 1241.

W

h e n e x ac t ly was the Talmud burnt in the mid-thirteenth century at Paris? Considerable uncertainty surrounds this crucial date in Jewish and indeed European history, with two dates emerging as the most frequently cited – 1242 and 1244. Of these two, 1242 is usually preferred.1

1. H. Graetz, Geschichte der Juden, 4th edition, Leipzig, 1897 (reprinted Berlin, 1998), VII, 405–10, ‘Das Datum der ersten Verbrennung des Talmuds in Frankreich’ (omitted from English edition), is still the best starting point, opting for 1242. S. Grayzel, The Church and the Jews in the XIIIth Century, revised edition, New York, 1966, pp. 30–2, 252, inclines to Graetz’s dating (see his ‘The Talmud and the Medieval Papacy’, in Essays in Honor of Solomon B. Freehof, ed. W. Jacob et al., Pittsburgh, 1964, pp. 220–45, at p. 226: ‘probably in 1242’), as does J. Cohen, The Friars and the Jews, Ithaca, 1982, pp. 63f, and his Living Letters of the Law, Berkeley, 1999, pp. 317, 320. So too H. Maccoby, Judaism on Trial, 2nd edition, London, 1993, p. 25; S. Simonsohn, The Apostolic See and the Jews. History, Toronto, 1991, p. 303 (‘probably in 1242’); H. Schreckenberg, Die christlichen Adversus-Judaeos-Texte und ihr literarisches und historisches Umfeld (13.–20. Jh.), Frankfurt, 1994, p. 101; A. Temko, ‘The Burning of the Talmud in Paris: Date: 1242’, Commentary, 17, May 1954, 446–55; J.M. Rosenthal, ‘The Talmud on Trial: The Disputation at Paris in the Year 1240’, Jewish Quarterly Review, 47, 1956, p. 72 (‘6 June 1242’). J.E. Rembaum, ‘The Talmud and the Popes: Reflections on the Talmud Trial of 1240’, Viator, 13, 1982, 203–23, does not refer to the burning, while K.R. Stow, ‘The Church and the Jews’, in D. Abulafia, ed., The New Cambridge Medieval History, Cambridge, 1999, V, 211–12, seems to argue for two burnings in 1242 and 1244.   G. Dahan, ‘La Disputation de Paris 1240’, Communauté Nouvelle, no. 49, May–June 1990, 98–120,

w h e n wa s t h e t a l m u d b u r n t a t pa r i s ? | 3 25 This article will examine critically the various bodies of apparently conflicting evidence, Jewish and Christian, and attempt to evaluate and reconcile as far as is possible their contradictions, as well as suggesting some new and interesting possibilities that render the whole episode even more complex and indicate June 1241 as the most probable date.

The Christian sources On 9 June 1239 pope Gregory IX wrote instructing the French clergy to confiscate the Jews’ copies of the Talmud, to whose alleged wickedness he had recently been alerted by the Jewish apostate Nicholas Donin. The Talmuds were to be confiscated in a sweep conducted by the friars and clergy on the first Saturday of the following Lent (3 March 1240) while the Jews were in synagogue. On 20 June the pope wrote again prescribing the penalty of burning for those books which were found indeed to be wicked.2 There ensued the notorious trial of the Talmud at Paris in the presence of the queen-mother Blanche on 25–27 June 1240.3 The Latin manuscript at p. 98, leaves 1242 and 1244 as possibilities (‘on ne sait au juste’), and this agnosticism is carried into the title and introduction of the valuable collection of essays edited by Dahan, Le brûlement du Talmud à Paris 1242–1244, Paris, 1999 (p. 15: ‘entre 1242 et 1244 probablement’). The critical essay by A. Tuilier in Le brûlement, p. 65, however, sees it as ‘clear that the first burning took place in 1242 or the beginning of 1243’. F. Parente, L’Eglise et le Talmud’, in his Les Juifs et l’Église romaine à l’époque moderne, Paris, 2007, pp. 261–2, opts for an unknown day in 1242.   A.M. Habermann, Sefer Gezerot Ashkenaz ve-Tsarfat, Jerusalem, 1945, prefers 1244, and so too I. Elbogen, Jewish Liturgy. A Comprehensive History, Philadelphia, 1993, p. 260. E.E. Urbach, Baalei ha-Tosafot, 4th edition, Jerusalem, 1980, p. 464, allows both 1242 and 1244. H. Kahn and A. Klein, ‘Le brûlement du Talmud en place de Grève: 750 ans’, in Kountrass (Jerusalem-Institut Rachi), no. 46, May–June 1994, 5–27, adopt 1244.  S.Ch. Kook, ‘Li-kviat taarich srifat ha-Talmud be-Tsarfat’, Kiryat Sefer, XXIX, 1953, 281, and D. Tamar, ‘Od li-kviat taarich srifat ha-Talmud be-Tsarfat’, Kiryat Sefer, XXIX, 1953, 430–1, explain that 1244 is feasible, despite Graetz’s arguments. Still, Kook prefers 1242. Ch. Merchavia, Ha-Talmud be’rei ha-Notzrim … 500–1248, Jerusalem, 1970, p. 248, fixes on 1242.   R. Chazan, ‘The Condemnation of the Talmud Reconsidered (1239–1248)’, Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research, XLV, 1988, 11–30, gives an excellent analysis of the historical issues, but does not consider the dating question, though elsewhere he accepts 1242. After completing this article, it came to my attention that B. Lawall, ‘Faciatis incendio concremari’. Untersuchungen … anhand der Pariser Verfahren gegen den Talmud, Frankfurt, 2004, pp. 261–3, also suggested 1241 as the burning date, though he believes it was in the autumn and gives no detailed argument for his suggestion. 2. Grayzel, pp. 239–43. 3. It is still not resolved whether this event should be taken as evidence of a formal Inquisition procedure and even tribunal by 1240, though the attempt by some of the participants to force Yehiel to swear an oath suggests an effort to turn it into a judicial proceeding; on the other hand, the case was clearly not a papal proceeding, but a royal one initiated at the request of the pope. A. Melloni, Innocenzo IV, Genoa, 1990, pp. 189–96, notes that ‘in all probability it [the debate] was not accompanied by the inquisitorial trial transmitted to us by the Latin MS of the disputation’

326 | jou r na l of j ew ish st u di e s dossier, BNP MS Latin 16,558, compiled later in the 1240s at the order of cardinal Eudes de Châteauroux, recounts, without giving any dates, that ‘by royal authority, therefore, all the books of the Talmud were collected from throughout France and taken to Paris. On a single day 14 cartloads were burnt and on another occasion 6 more cartloads.’4 MS Latin 16,558 contains a great deal of material relating to the Paris trial or disputation of June 1240 involving the Jewish apostate Nicholas Donin, but it offers no chronology or detailed sequence of events. We know, however, from a later letter of Eudes (written at some point between August 1247 and May 1248) that the trial of 1240 was followed by a further expert inquiry into the nature of the Talmud under his aegis and ended with a third stage, a ‘taking of advice’ or condemnation. Following Gregory IX’s order to confiscate the Talmud, says Eudes: Much more [than previously alleged] was found in the said books in the presence of Walter [de Cornut], Archbishop of Sens, of happy memory and of the venerable fathers of Paris, of the Bishop of Senlis, and of the Friar Godfried de Blevel, your chaplain, then regent of Paris, and of other teachers of theology, and even of Jewish teachers who, in the presence of these men, confessed that the above-named things were contained in their books [this was the first stage of the trial, the disputation of June 1240]. A careful examination [diligens examinatio = the second stage] having afterwards been made, it was discovered that the said books were full of errors … After the said examination had been made, and the advice of all the teachers of theology and canon law, and of many others, had been taken [habitum consilium, the ‘taking of advice’ = the third stage], all the said books which could then be gotten hold of, were consigned to the flames in accordance with the apostolic decree.5 (p. 190). See Parente, Les Juifs et l’Eglise, pp. 261–2, and in general W. Trusen, ‘Von den Anfängen des Inquisitionsprozess zum Verfahren bei der inquisitio haereticae pravitatis’, in P. Segl, ed., Die Anfänge der Inquisition im Mittelalter, Cologne, 1993, pp. 39–76. 4. Bibliothèque Nationale de Paris, MS Latin 16,558, fol. 211v, Prologus in secundam partem, excerpted in I. Loeb, ‘La controverse de 1240 sur le Talmud’, Revue des Etudes Juives, I, 1880, 246–261; II, 1881, 248–70; III, 1881, 39–57. The quotation is from II, 252–3; for the date of the disputation, III, 55. A manuscript preface (fol. 97) states that it had been compiled with the assistance of two learned Jewish converts to Christianity, one of whom has been identified as Theobald of Sézanne, subprior of the Dominican convent at Paris. See G. Dahan, ‘Les traductions latines de Thibaud de Sézanne’, in Le brûlement du Talmud, pp. 95–120. Strangely there has been no critical edition of the manuscript, though a new edition of the Hebrew account by Joseph ben Nathan Official is in preparation; see P. Capelli,’Il Processo di Parigi del 1240 contro il Talmud: Verso un’edizione critica del testo ebraico’, Materia Giudaica, VI, 2001, 85–90; idem, ‘Il Wikkuah Rabbenu Yehi’el: Problemi di storia del testo’, in W. Binni, ed., L’Armonia nella Scrittura: Saggi in onore di Padre Bernardo Boschi, Bologna, 2006, pp. 148–66. See also U. Ragacs, ‘Die Disputation von Paris 1240 im Spiegel ihrer Handschriften und Editionen. Anmerkungen zu einem Desideratum’, Henoch, 26, 2004, 265–74. 5. Grayzel, pp. 277–8. ‘Godfried de Blevel’ is the Paris Dominican Godefroy de Bléneau; see R. Berndt, ‘Gottfried von Bléneau’, in Lexikon für Theologie und Kirche, 3rd ed., Freiburg, 1993–2001, IV,

w h e n wa s t h e t a l m u d b u r n t a t pa r i s ? | 3 2 7 This passage testifies to there having been three distinct stages to the Talmud trial: the first the disputation involving Yechiel and other Jewish masters that occurred in June 1240, the second a ‘careful examination’, and the third a ‘taking of advice’ from various clerics resulting in a verdict or condemnation. Much of the ‘careful examination’ appears to form the substance of MS 16,558, which, in addition to Donin’s 35 Articles of indictment of the Talmud, includes also more systematic analyses of the Talmud’s errors arranged both according to tractate and thematically, with the category of the error often being marked. A ‘careful examination’ itself by the experts was done again in 1248, as we know from a further letter of Eudes’ of May 1248, and so MS 16,558 may actually represent a fusion of the two expert ‘examinations’ of post-1240 and 1248 (and conceivably yet another done in 1244 in connection with Innocent IV’s orders). In both cases, indeed, Eudes’ modus operandi was to have a ‘careful examination’ done by experts, followed by the ‘taking of advice’ which at least in the case of 1248 was a public and formal consultation. Thus, in May 1248 Eudes announced: We have examined these books and caused them to be examined by men of discretion, expert in these matters [=the ‘careful examination’]. Therefore, with the advice of those pious men whom we caused to be gathered especially for that purpose [i.e. the ‘taking of advice] … we decisively condemn them.6

From internal evidence it is clear that the final touches to MS Latin 16,558 were written in 1248 or after. Much of the material stems obviously from the early 1240s – for example, the passages relating to the Deposiciones of Rabbis Yechiel and Judah, to the Yechiel disputation of 1240, and to Donin’s 35 Articles. But the introduction to the rabbis’ Deposiciones, in referring to Eudes’s presence as Chancellor of Paris at the disputation of 1240, adds that he was ‘now Bishop [sc. Cardinal] of Tusculum and Apostolic Legate in the Holy Land’. This means that ‘now’ – the time of writing – must be 1248 or later, since Eudes was appointed legate to the Holy Land only with the inception of the Ninth Crusade in 1248.7 946–7; T. Kaeppeli, Scriptores ordinis Praedicatorum medii aevi, Rome, 1970–91, II, 16–18. (I am grateful to an anoymous referee for this identification and other helpful suggestions.) 6. Eudes’ letter of ‘mense Maio, 1248’, in Grayzel, pp. 278–9, variously dated there and Merchavia, p. 451. 7. MS 16,558, fol. 230. Merchavia, p. 453: ‘nunc autem tusculanum episcopum et apostolicae sedis legatum in terra sancta’. J. Shatzmiller, La deuxième controverse de Paris. Un chapître dans la polémique entre chrétiens et juifs au Moyen Age, Paris-Louvain, 1994, 21, speculates that the MS was compiled for the later 1269

328 | jou r na l of j ew ish st u di e s Unfortunately, no date was given by the compilers of MS Latin 16,558 for the first burning that resulted from the proceedings that began in 1240, and in fact the next reference we have in official documents to a burning is a letter sent on 9 May 1244 by pope Innocent IV to king Louis IX of France recapitulating the history of the affair: Indeed our beloved son the Chancellor of Paris [Eudes de Châteauroux], and the doctors, the Regents of Paris, after having at the command of our predecessor Pope Gregory of happy memory, as expressed in a sacred decree, read the above-named book of abuse [the Talmud], as well as others which, along with their glosses, they had in their possession, and having examined them, they consigned them to the flames, in the presence of clergy and laity, to the confusion of the perfidy of the Jews, as we have seen in their letters … Nevertheless, because the blasphemous abuse of the Jews has not yet ceased… we ask your Royal Highness … to strike down with merited severity all the detestable and heinous excesses of this sort … Also the above-mentioned abusive books, condemned by these doctors, as well as all the commentaries which have been examined and condemned by them, should, at your order, be burned in fire wherever they can be found throughout your kingdom.8

Innocent’s letter of 1244 thus indicates only one earlier burning of the Talmud – at the command of Gregory IX – prior to May 1244, though the date is left unspecified. The matter is complicated by the fact that there had been a lengthy gap between Gregory IX’s death on 22 August 1241 and Innocent IV’s elevation on 25 June 1243. Celestine IV had succeeded Gregory in October 1241, but lived scarcely more than two weeks, his death being followed by an interregnum. Thus, if we assume from the evidence of Innocent’s letter that the burning actually took place while Gregory was still alive, that would place the burning before August 1241; on the other hand, Gregory’s command could conceivably have been carried out by Eudes de Châteauroux, the man in charge of the matter at Paris, at any time up after Gregory’s death until the accession of Innocent in June 1243. Accepting both conditions, the window of time for the first burning of the Talmud ordered by Gregory IX is effectively up till June 1243. At any rate, Innocent’s letter is firm proof that the Talmud was not first burnt in 1244 and that date should be corrected in future scholarly references.

disputation at Paris, but this is unlikely in view of the reference to Eudes ‘now’ being legate. Cf. U. Ragacs, Die zweite Talmuddisputation von Paris 1269, Frankfurt, 2001, pp. 43–69. 8. Grayzel, p. 253.

w h e n wa s t h e t a l m u d b u r n t a t pa r i s ? | 3 2 9 Two Christian sources which confirm that the first burning took place before 1244 suggest it took place in the first part of the window rather than the second. The Dominican annals of Erfurt, compiled in the XIVth century from earlier records, state: ‘In the year 1242 around the time of the Feast of St Michael, the king of France on account of the arrogance of the Jews … ordered 24 cartloads of their books to be burned at Paris’.9 Michaelmas in 1242 fell on 29 September. Unfortunately, there are some textual problems with the manuscript of the Annales Erphesfortenses, which along with the unsettling word circa, prevent us taking this as the precise date, or even indeed the correct year.10 A related source, the Saxon World-Chronicle, says that ‘full 20 cartloads of the Jews’ books were burned at Paris’, and dates the burning to 1241.11 Another Dominican author, this time one who was present at Paris in the 1240s, Thomas of Cantimpré, provides in his well-known Book of the Bees (De Apibus) a highly circumstantial account which sheds light on what happened between the Talmud trial of June 1240 and its eventual cremation – and also throws a sharper focus on the date. According to Thomas: At the instigation of Henry of Cologne … the most wicked book of the Jews, called the Talmud, was collected at Paris … Many copies of this were taken to be burned at Paris. The weeping Jews approached an archbishop who was the highest councillor of the king and offered much money to him to preserve the books. The books were returned to the Jews on a day they declared to be an annual occasion of solemnity … But a year later, on the same day and at the same place the execrable books had been returned, that is, at Vincennes near Paris, the said archbishop having come there to consult with the king, was seized by a dire sickness of his inner organs, and that same day with much suffering died. The king fled the place with his whole family. Not long after, as before, Brother Henry instigated the the collection of the Jewish books and their burning in great number.12

9. Monumenta Erphesfurtensia saec. XII, XIII, XIV (Scriptores rerum Germanicarum, Band 42), ed. O. Holder-Egger, Hannover, 1899, p. 98. 10. As Graetz, p. 406, notes. 11. Sächsische Weltchronik, ed. L. Weiland (Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Scriptorum qui vernacula lingua usi sunt/Deutsche Chroniken, II), Hannover , 1877, p. 255. 12. Thomas of Cantimpré, Bonum universale de apibus, Douai, 1627, pp. 17f. (I, 3, 6; cf. I, 9, 3; II, 10, 36; II, 43, 4). The Henry of Cologne in question is also known as Henry of Marsberg to distinguish him from another Henry of Cologne (sc. Henry of Utrecht) who was Dominican Prior at Cologne; our Henry was prominent at Paris as a theologian and adviser to king Louis IX; see Quetif and Echard, Scriptores ordinis Praedicatorum recensiti, Paris, 1719–23, I, 148–9 (and I, 93–5 for the other Henry); Kaeppeli, Scriptores ordinis Praedicatorum, II, 190–1.

33 0 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s The archbishop in question is generally agreed to have been Walter de Cornut, archbishop of Sens, the leading French cleric, who was one of the three churchmen who presided over the first stage of the Talmud trial at Paris in June 1240.13 Reasonably well-disposed towards the Jews (according to his acquaintance Joseph ben Nathan Official’s Sefer ha-Meqanne),14 Walter intervened at some point to have the Talmud volumes restored to them at Vincennes. We know that Walter died on 20 April 1241 so that the intervention must have been, according to what Thomas says, a year before, in April 1240.15 This naturally raises new issues. Is it possible that the Talmud volumes which were ordered to be confiscated from the synagogues in a sweep by the friars on 3 March 1240 were restored to the Jews about a month later through Walter’s intervention in April 1240? There is no objection in principle to this having happened before the first stage of the trial took place on 25 June; in fact, it seems quite plausible that after the shock of 3 March, the French Jews would have acted quickly and approached Walter for help and obtained the restoration of the books before the trial opened. Nothing in the sources contradicts this sequence. One must, nevertheless, treat Thomas of Cantimpré’s testimony with a certain degree of caution. Circumstantial as it may be, the text may reflect Thomas’ tendency to use coincidence as a proof of the miraculous; it may well be that Thomas is forcing the two events into a coincidental framework of dates. On the other hand, there is no reason to doubt the reality of the events themselves – that is, the restoration of the books and the death of the archbishop who had restored them. The necessary caveat is that the two incidents may not have been exactly a year apart as Thomas alleges. But we may accept that it was roughly a year or so between the two events. The next phase would plausibly have been initiated by Walter’s death on 20 April 1241 and Henry of Cologne’s renewed campaign to repossess the returned volumes. How long did this take? If it was before the death of Gregory IX, then it must have been before 22 August 1241. That would have given Henry four months at the most to collect the Talmud volumes 13. A. Darmesteter in Revue des Etudes Juives, I, 1880, 140–145, argues for Cornut and rejects the view that the reference was to the archbishop of Rouen. Graetz, VII, 409; Grayzel, pp. 31–2n; and H. Platelle, ed., Thomas de Cantimpré. Les exemples du ‘Livre des Abeilles’. Une vision médièvale, Louvain/ Brepols, 1997, p. 45, all accept Cornut. Cohen, Friars, p. 64n, seems undecided. 14. Sefer Yosef ha-Meqanne, ed. J. Rosenthal, Jerusalem, 1970. 15. C. Eubel, Hierarchia Catholica medii aevi, 2nd ed., Munster, 1913, I, 447.

w h e n wa s t h e t a l m u d b u r n t a t pa r i s ? | 331 and carry out their burning. There is no reason why the operation should not have been carried out in a far shorter time, say by June 1241 (June, as we shall see, is the probable month for the burning, according to Jewish sources). However, the new pope Celestine was not elected until 26 October, and after his death three weeks later on 10 November, there was a long interregnum until the election of Innocent IV in June 1243. It is conceivable that Gregory’s original order for the burning of the Talmud remained in force until the accession of Innocent and that the burning may well have taken place under its authority at any time up until June 1243. The need for a further burning, however, required a new authorization, which was granted by Innocent’s letter of 9 May 1244 (discussed above). In any event, papal chronologies give us two alternative sets of dates for the first burning of the Talmud: either before 22 August 1241 (if it took place in Gregory’s lifetime), or from 23 August 1241 to 25 June 1243, if it took place after the authorizing pope had died but his decree still ran. Further letters of Innocent III and Eudes of 1247–8 indicate that there had only been one burning of the Talmud before 1247 and that it had taken place on the authority of Gregory IX’s mandate. Innocent’s letter of 12 August 1247 to king Louis IX had effectively revoked his own order of 1244 to burn the Talmud. Evidently the books had not been burned, and by the time of writing Innocent (according to the letter) had been approached by Jewish scholars who pleaded with him to restore their books to them. Innocent, therefore, now instructed Eudes to proceed to a careful inspection of the Talmud and to ‘tolerate such as he will find may be tolerated and restore them to the Jewish masters’; there is no mention of burning those which are not found to be tolerable. However, Eudes protested violently at this commission and rehearsed the history of the previous (single) burning, complete with the mandates of Gregory IX. His letter to the pope is undated, but presumably was written in late 1247 or early 1248: It would therefore be most disgraceful and a cause of shame for the Apostolic Throne if books that had been so solemnly and so justly been burned in the presence of all the scholars, and of the clergy, and of the populace of Paris, were to be given back to the masters of the Jews at the order of the pope … I have asked the Jewish masters to show me the Talmud and all their other books; and they have exhibited to me five most vile volumes which I shall have carefully examined in accordance with your command.16 16. Grayzel, p. 278.

33 2 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s The outcome was that Eudes submitted the Talmud and the other books to the scholars and clerics of the University of Paris, who in May 1248 issued a document with 41 signatures (including those of Theobald of Sézanne, one of the compilers of the Latin MS dossier, and Henry of Cologne, who had instigated the re-confiscation and burning of the Talmud after the death of Walter de Cornut) condemning the books: Know ye all that in Paris on the Ides of May 1248, we inspected certain Jewish books called Talmud, and in the presence of the Jewish masters and of those called for this purpose, we pronounced definite judgement as follows … We have examined and caused to be carefully examined by men of discretion, expert in these matters, these books … Therefore with the advice of those pious men whom we caused to be gathered especially for that purpose, we pronounced these books unworthy of toleration, and that they are not to be restored to their Jewish masters, and we decisively condemn them.17

There is no actual mention of burning in this condemnation. Is it reasonable to assume that a burning did take place? At the very least the books remained confiscated; the letter also threatens further confiscation of books that the Jews had not yet produced despite being required to do so. But were the books burned in 1248? Again this is easily, and perhaps rightly, assumed to be the case. But we have no explicit evidence on this, except perhaps for a legal text by Innocent IV in which he recalls that he and Gregory ordered the Talmud to be burned (Gregorius et Innocentius mandaverunt comburi libros Talmuth). But then again, he does not say that the Talmud was actually burned.18 It is certainly possible that Innocent’s order was indeed carried out, but that it was done after considerably more delay (it is clear from Eudes’ letter of remonstration that the order of 1244 had not been carried out in any event by 1247). The burning may have been delayed until even later years in which books appeared to have been burned: 1250 (in southern France), 1255 (as decreed by the Council of Béziers), or 1258 (when Alexander IV ordered the seizure of the Talmud in Burgundy, Anjou and Provence). Of course, much later still, the Talmud was burned at Toulouse in 1319, and the year after burnings took place at Paris and Pamiers.19 It has to be considered that not all orders to burn were followed immediately or in direct consequence by burnings. 17. H. Denifle, Chartularium Universitatis Parisiensis. Paris, 1899, I, 209–11. Cf. Grayzel, p. 279. 18. B.Z. Kedar, ‘Canon Law and the Burning of the Talmud’, Bulletin of Medieval Canon Law, New Series, 9, 1979, 79–82. 19. Y.H. Yerushalmi, ‘The Inquisition and the Jews of France in the Time of Bernardo Gui’, Harvard Theological Review, 63, 1970, 317–76, at pp. 326–7.

w h e n wa s t h e t a l m u d b u r n t a t pa r i s ? | 333 The Jewish sources Turning to the main Jewish source we immediately encounter a problem with the testimony of the prominent thirteenth-century Italian Talmudist, Zedekiah ben Abraham Anav ha-Rofe, whose important compilation of Jewish law and liturgy Shibbolei ha-Leket (Gleaned Ears of Corn) categorically states that the burning took place on the Friday of the week of Parshat Hookat in the Jewish year 5004 (that is, on the 9th of the Hebrew month of Tammuz=17 June 1244):20 Since we are concerned with the laws of fasts and the burning of the Torah, we write as a remembrance that which befell us in our own times on account of our many sins. The Torah of our God was burned in the Hebrew year 5004 (=1244) on the Friday of Parshat Vezot Hookat ha-Torah [this weekly reading of the Torah begins with Numbers XIX]. 24 cartloads filled with volumes of the Talmud, laws and aggadot were burned in France, as we have heard personally from our rabbis who were there. We have heard that they asked for advice through a dream so they might know whether this was a decree from God, and God responded to them that it was a decree of the Torah [the opening line of the Parashah in Numbers XIX is: ‘This is the decree of the law’] … And from that day on the leaders took it upon themselves to fast every year on the Friday of Parshat Hookat, rather than establishing the fast on a particular day of the month; thus would the ashes be an atonement for us, a burnt offering on the altar.21

This passage from Zedekiah presents serious conflicts with our other sources regarding both the year and the month. We may begin by looking at the reference to the ‘24 cartloads’ of books that were burned. This is a striking detail common to both the Annales Erphesfortenses and Zedekiah. It conflicts with the statement in MS 16,558 that 14 carts were burnt and on a later occasion another 6 (the Saxon WorldChronicle also gives the total as 20, which may indicate dependence on the tradition of the Paris MS). Could this Paris MS detail, which is probably the most accurate we have, have been transformed by both Erfurt and Zedekiah from 14 into 24, perhaps by simply misreading the first digit? If Erfurt, Zedekiah and the Paris MS are all referring to the first burning, then it would be tempting to accept the tradition of the Christian sources mentioned above (Erfurt and Innocent) and place the first burning in the 20. Graetz, VII, 406. 21. Zedekiah ben Abraham Anav ha-Rofe, Shibbolei ha-Leket, ed. S. Buber, Vilna, 1886, no. 263, p. 252.

33 4 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s year 1242. Zedekiah’s dating of 5004 (1244) may, as Graetz has argued, be the result of a scribal error in which the Hebrew bet was mis-written as a dalet, thus changing the original Hebrew date from 5002 (ending in bet) to 5004 (ending in dalet). However, this apparent concordance is undermined by the conflict of Zedekiah with the Erfurt annals over the month of the first burning. While Erfurt dates it ‘around Michaelmas’ (September) , Zedekiah places it clearly in the June week of Parshat Hookat by referring to the dream in which the Torah sentence ‘This is the decree’ confirmed that the burning was God’s will. For Graetz, the month presented a real difficulty in establishing also the year of the burning. If it were indeed in Tammuz/June, 1244, then how could Innocent’s letter of May 1244 be referring to a burning that had not yet occurred? This reasoning strengthened Graetz’s inclination to follow Erfurt in dating the burning to 1242. It testifies to the authority of Zedekiah’s account, all the same, that Graetz, while attributing Zedekiah’s 1244 dating to a scribal error, was ultimately willing to accept Tammuz/June as the month. The Tammuz dating seems to be confirmed by a lamentation (kina) by the famous rabbi Meir of Rothenburg that is now part of the 9th of Av liturgy. The dirge Sha’ali serufah be-esh (Ask, O thou consumed by fire) appears to suggest that Meir, who had studied with the French rabbis, was himself an eyewitness of the burning: ‘Is there a new Torah, thus permitting the burning of your pages? The third month ended, and the fourth began, A time for destroying … I have seen how they gathered your booty … then burned the holy booty, so that you are unable to join your people’.22 The allegory here is built around the disasters that occurred in the (fourth) month of Tammuz, including Titus’ breach of the walls of Jerusalem and his burning of the Torah, events already commemorated by the fast of the 17th of Tammuz. The burning of the Talmud at Paris was another in the series of Tammuz disasters. Meir’s Sha’ali certainly may support a Tammuz dating, though it might instead be taken as a poetic allocation of the burning to a suitable month. On the whole, though, Zedekiah’s affirmation of Parshat Hookat/ Tammuz, suggests strongly Meir’s reference is more than a poetic conceit. 22. Translated in R. Chazan, ed., Church, State, and Jew in the Middle Ages, New York, 1980, p. 230. Hebrew text in The Authorized Kinot for the Ninth of Av, ed. A. Rosenfeld, London, 1965, pp. 161–2. Habermann, Sefer Gezerot, pp. 244ff. Cf. S.L. Einbinder, Beautiful Death. Jewish Poetry and Martyrdom in Medieval France, Princeton, 2002, pp. 73–81.

w h e n wa s t h e t a l m u d b u r n t a t pa r i s ? | 335 But here we come to a difficulty about the Zedekiah reference to Parshat Hookat. Some years ago Kook and Tamar tried to remove the main objection by Graetz to 1244 as the true date of the burning (namely, the May 1244 letter of Innocent IV) by arguing that Zedekiah’s citation of the Numbers text ‘This is the decree’ refers not to Parshat Hookat in Tammuz/June, but rather to Parshat Para in the month of Adar/March, when the same text (Numbers XIX) is also used as a special reading for the sabbath of Para in the sequence leading to Passover. Thus, the burning could after all have taken place in Adar/March 1244 and it is this completed event that is referred to in the past tense by Innocent’s letter of May 1244.23 The obvious difficulty, of course, is that this both goes against the Christian sources and also contradicts Zedekiah’s own specific reference to Parshat Hookat. Indeed, Zedekiah does not mention Parshat Para at all. Is the Parshat Para and Hookat identity in this context no more than a pure coincidence, no matter how ingenious an argument it may support? There is one piece of evidence which renders it difficult to dismiss. This is a reported quotation from an an early Roman rite prayer-book (of unspecified provenance and period) which asserts explicitly that current custom set the fast at the time of Parshat Para to commemorate the burning of the Talmud in France. ‘According to a prayerbook of the old Roman tradition (minhag) … on the 17th of the month of Tammuz the children of Israel engage in laments and flock there [to the synagogue?] on the eve of Parshat Para and are accustomed in our days to fast for the Talmud that was burned in France’.24 The interesting point here is that Zedekiah was also based in Italy, so that we are dealing here with two separate references to a text of Numbers read in both Tammuz and Adar. There seems indeed to be what might be called an Italian tradition here connecting the Paris burning to ‘This is the decree’ (Numbers XIX), but a tradition in which some garbling has clearly taken place, leading to Zedekiah preferring Tammuz/Hookat and the anonymous Roman siddur opting for Adar/Para. But who is right? In general one might privilege a known author over an anonymous one, but the anonymous author here had 23. Kook’s and Tamar’s articles are cited above in note 1. 24. Quoted in J. Hildesheimer, ‘Halakhot gdulot kitve-yad Vaticano’, in Hechaluz (Vienna), XIII, 1889, 100–10, at p. 107. Noticed by A. Berliner, Geschichte der Juden in Rom, Berlin, 1893, II, Part I, p. 126n; Berliner, p. 39, also refers to the burning of 21 Torah scrolls in the Trastevere synagogue in the month of Elul in 1268.

336 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s no need to develop an argument – unlike modern writers – that Parshat Para was the occasion for reading a text that was more commonly associated with Parshat Hookat. In this case, it would have been more likely, perhaps, for Zedekiah to have been told of the Numbers text and straightforwardly attributed it to Parshat Hookat. The Roman prayerbook tradition might then be the preferred dating. But one should bear in mind that Zedekiah is the first major halachic compiler of the Italian ritual, whereas the reported text of the Roman siddur is somewhat defective, that the report is a second-hand one, and that the prayerbook itself is of uncertain date, and in any case has not been identified. Caution, therefore, dictates that for the time being we should prefer Zedekiah’s Parshat Hookat to the prayerbook’s Parshat Para as the occasion for the fast. It may all be due to a confusion in the Roman community that led them to attribute the associated text ‘This is the decree’ to Para, perhaps as a result of some Roman misfortune occurring at that time. In any event, even if the Parshat Para dating were accepted, it would not necessitate taking 1244 as the year. The argument was prompted originally by the need to allow 1244 to stand as the year of the first burning. But 1244 cannot in any case hold, since Innocent IV became pope in 1243 and there is no possibility, to judge from his letter of May 1244, that he had already had the Talmud burned in his reign. Dating the Talmud burning to before 1243 respects the Christian sources and can also accommodate both the Parshat Para and Parshat Hookat arguments. A 1244 burning in Para/Adar/March would disregard Innocent’s clear allusion to the fact that the Talmud had earlier been burnt by order of Gregory IX. And a 1244 Hookat/Tammuz/ June burning is ruled out, as Graetz noted, by the evidence of Innocent’s letter of May.

A critical reconciliation of the Christian and Jewish sources In many respects 1241 is the easiest date to reconcile with both the Christian and Jewish sources. It falls within Gregory IX’s lifetime and fits well into the framework suggested by Thomas of Cantimpré’s story of the death of Walter de Cornut and its aftermath. The books were collected for the June 1240 trial at Paris, but restored to their owners through the intervention of Cornut, only to be seized again after his death in April 1241 and burnt soon after, possibly by June/Tammuz. It is also supported by the Saxon

w h e n wa s t h e t a l m u d b u r n t a t pa r i s ? | 337 World-Chronicle which may help to remedy the defective textual tradition of the Annales Erphesfortenses’s possible misdating of 1242. Zedekiah is insistent about the Tammuz/June dating of the burning, but his year of 1244 must be erroneous since it is completely incompatible with the major Christian source, Innocent IV’s letter of May 1244. In any case, Graetz and others have already weakened Zedekiah’s 1244 attribution by correcting it as a scribal error for 1242. Why was Graetz (followed by nearly all other historians) so ready to accept 1242 as the true year for the first burning? In fact, there seems to be hardly any evidence for the selection of 1242 apart from the possibly defective reading in the Annales Erphesfortenses. As we have argued in the Christian section above, even if we accept a wide window for the burning, that window should in all likelihood be 1241–3. With Zedekiah’s 1244 out of the question, none of the Jewish sources would contradict any of those years. Given the complexity and contradictory nature of the Christian and Jewish sources, it cannot be stated at present definitively when exactly the Talmud was first burned. In a sense, we have a little too much evidence and at the same time a little too scant evidence to permit a full resolution of the problems. But a relatively useful reconciliation of the evidence can be achieved if Zedekiah’s date of 1244 is rejected as an error – as it must. Furthermore, the reality that the confiscation of books may not have been immediately followed by their burning, but might be delayed – after the vicissitudes of trial, restoration and re-confiscation and new examination – for some years as in the case of Innocent’s order of May 1244, complicates the assigning of a specific time for the burning of the Talmud after the death of Cornut in April 1241. Still, the key critical condition may be taken as the lifetime of Gregory IX (despite the slim possibility that the burning he ordered could have been executed after his death) and that would place the date as being before 23 August 1241. This would be consistent with Zedekiah’s June/ Tammuz burning, as well as Cantimpré’s narrative. Finally, there is one possible (though very speculative) interpretation of the evidence which would have the merit of reconciling Zedekiah’s 1244 with the evidence indicating an earlier dating. Let us assume that the Talmud was indeed burned for the first time in the period 1241–3 as Innocent’s letter of 12 May 1244 strongly suggests. Might a second burning have therefore followed Innocent’s order in Tammuz/June 1244 – that same year – as Zedekiah asserts

338 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s it did? If this is so, then the books which Innocent ordered restored to the Jews in 1247 and which Eudes had condemned in May 1248 would represent the material for a third burning, rather than having been those held over from 1244 for a second burning which would not take place for a long four years. In principle, there is nothing to contradict this reconciliation of the evidence by postulating three burnings – in 1241–3, in June 1244, and after May 1248. This possibility, however, is quite a remote one, since Innocent’s letter of 12 August 1247 implies strongly that no books had been burnt in consequence of his order of 9 May 1244, and in any case there are no explicit reports of three sequential burnings. The foregoing arguments lead to the following conditions: 1. 1244 cannot be accepted as the year of the first burning of the Talmud. The burning had clearly occurred before the beginning of Innocent IV’s reign (1243) – otherwise he would not have needed to write the May 1244 letter as he did. The letter makes no reference to any burning having occurred in his reign. 2. 1242 is certainly possible within the time frame of 1241–3 which has been argued. But what does it rest on? Only on Graetz’s arbitrary emendation of Zedekiah, which seems to have been intended to make it fit into the Annales Erphesfortenses’ probably defective dating of 1242. 3. 1241 fits the probability that the Talmud was burned in Gregory IX’s reign as a result of his bull and before his death in August 1241. It also fits in well with the fact that the death of Walter de Cornut in April 1241 led to the re-confiscation and burning. 4. Even if 1241 is not certain, we can be reasonably sure that the burning took place between the death of Walter de Cornut in April 1241 and the accession of Innocent IV in June 1243. 5. A conjectural method of reconciling Zedekiah’s specific dating of Tammuz/ June 1244 with the rest of the evidence is to postulate three burnings; one by Gregory IX’s order in 1241–3, a second in June 1244 as a result of Innocent’s order of the previous month, and a third resulting from Eudes’ condemnation of May 1248. 6. 14 cartloads of books were burnt on one occasion, and 6 cartloads on another. The time and place of the second occasion are unclear.

w h e n wa s t h e t a l m u d b u r n t a t pa r i s ? | 339 Conclusions These considerations suggest a number of conclusions: • that the traditional date of 1244 be rejected for the first burning of the Talmud; • that 1242 be treated as possible, but not in the least firm; • that the dating be ascribed to the period 1241–3; • that within this period, June/Tammuz 1241 appears to be the most feasible date for the first time the Talmud was burned by order of Gregory IX since the pope died in August of that year; • that the second burning originally ordered in 1244 by Innocent IV took place probably in 1248 after the University of Paris’s examination of May 1248; • speculatively, that if the first burning took place in 1241–3, it is also possible that the second burning ordered by Innocent IV occurred in June 1244 – in which case the burning of 1248 would have been a third burning; • or, again speculatively, the burning of the second consignment of ‘6 cartloads’ of Talmudica may have been some time after the first ‘14 cartloads’ and have taken place in June 1244 as the result of Innocent IV’s new order of May 1244. Some of these conclusions may seem tentative. Nevertheless, it seems wellnigh certain that the traditional and conflicting datings of 1242 and 1244 for the first burning are not as well-based as their frequent assertion warrants, and that June 1241 is, taking all the evidence into consideration, the date of the first burning of the Talmud at Paris, and the date that best reconciles the Christian and Jewish evidence. For June as the month, we rely on the Jewish evidence of Zedekiah’s specification that the burning was in the week of Parshat Hookat in Tammuz/ June. For 1241 as the year, we depend on the Christian evidence of Cantimpré that the burning occurred ‘not long after’ Walter de Cornut’s death in 1241, and also on the fact of Gregory IX’s death in the same year.

j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s   |   v o l .   l x i 1   |   n o .   2   |   a u t u m n 2 011

Divorce on demand: the history, dogmatics and hermeneutics of the wife’s right to divorce in Jewish law Av i s h a l o m W e s t r e i c h A c a d e m i c C e n t e r o f L aw a n d B u s i n e s s , R a m a t G a n , I s r a e l

a b s t r ac t This paper has two aims: historical and dogmatic. Historical, by studying two actual halakhic traditions in which divorce was issued at the wife’s demand, with an analysis of the interaction between them: the Palestinian divorce clause, according to Cairo Genizah ketubbot (marriage documents), and the Geonic compulsion of a get (a writ of divorce) in the case of the rebellious wife (moredet). Dogmatic, by examining the status of three halakhic concepts of the unilateral termination of marriage derived from the above traditions: coercion of a get, terminative condition and annulment of marriage. Historically, the paper rejects some suggested links between these traditions. Nevertheless, a fascinating interaction between them is revealed at a different level. Later in time some halakhic writers connected the two traditions. This link, although historically doubtful, strengthens the dogmatic weight of these traditions and reflects the nature of the halakhah as an interpretive legal system.

T

h i s pa p e r has two aims: historical and dogmatic. Historical, in studying two actual halakhic traditions in which divorce was issued at the wife’s demand, with analysis of the legal interaction between them; dogmatic, in examining the status of three halakhic concepts of unilateral termination of marriage derived from these traditions: coercion of a get (a Jewish writ of divorce), terminative conditions and annulment of marriage. The two topics lead to one integrated outcome: exploring the status of the halakhic tools which enable issuance of divorce against the will of a recalcitrant spouse.

I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Professor Bernard Jackson and the members of the Agunah Research Unit, Centre for Jewish Studies, University of Manchester, and to Professors Berachyahu Lifshitz, Hebrew University, Jerusalem, and Mordechai A. Friedman, Tel Aviv University, for their valuable observations and useful comments.

di vorce on de m a n d | 341 The divorce clause and the Geonic Moredet: common denominators Two related traditions have developed two different Jewish Law institutions for a single object: enabling the wife to demand – and obtain – a unilateral divorce, even against her husband’s will. The first is the Palestinian tradition, according to Cairo Genizah ketubbot (marriage documents) dated to the tenth to eleventh centuries CE ,1 but probably rooted in an older tradition, found already in the Palestinian Talmud.2 The second is the Geonic tradition – also rooted in the Talmudic era – which was in practice in Babylonia throughout the Geonic era (approximately seventh to eleventh centuries CE).3 In the Palestinian tradition the couple stipulated explicitly4 in their ketubbah that the wife is entitled to a unilateral divorce (the ‘divorce clause’).5 According to the Babylonian tradition the wife’s right to a unilateral divorce was based on positive law, i.e. the law of the rebellious wife (moredet), as reflected in several Geonic decrees which permitted divorce at the wife’s unilateral demand.6 1. The ketubbot were discovered, researched and thoroughly discussed by Mordechai A. Friedman, Jewish Marriage in Palestine – A Cairo Geniza Study, vol. 1 (Tel Aviv and New York: Tel Aviv University and the Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1980; hereinafter: Friedman, Jewish Marriage). This paper relies on Friedman’s research in many aspects, as indicated below. 2. In the Palestinian Talmud we find segments of divorce clauses that are similar to the Genizah ketubbot in both syntax and content. See PT Ketubbot, 5:9, 30b (R. Yoseh’s condition); 7:6, 31c (the ‘kiss story’). The fifth-century B CE Jewish community of Elephantine also reflects a very similar tradition, thus all three are part of a ‘long chain of tradition in writing the Jewish marriage contract’ (Friedman, Jewish Marriage, supra n. 1, 319). It is possible that this Jewish tradition was influenced by ancient Near Eastern traditions of stipulations in marriage documents; see Friedman, ibid., 313–20. Another possible influence, Karaite (or Palestinian influence on the Karaites), is questionable. Divorce clauses, as well as provisions for slavery and burial, were absent from Karaite marriage documents; see Judith Olszowy-Schlanger, Karaite Marriage Documents from the Cairo Geniza (Leiden, New York and Cologne: Brill, 1997), 263–9. As to general influence, Friedman claims for some influence of the Palestinian tradition on the Karaites (see Friedman, ibid., 46–49), while Olszowy-Schlanger disputes. For an extensive analysis of the relationship between Karaite marriage documents and Babylonian, Palestinian and Muslim documents, see Olszowy-Schlanger, ibid., 266–71. 3. See Friedman, Jewish Marriage, supra n.1, 324–5; Y. Brody, ‘Kelum Hayu ha-Geonim Mehokekim?’, Shenaton Hamishpat Haivri 11–12 (1984–1986), 298–300 (hereinafter: Brody, Ha-Geonim). 4. This is clearer in the Genizah ketubbot than in the Palestinian Talmud. Nevertheless, the two belong to one continuing tradition; see supra, n. 2. 5. The exact operation of this stipulation is discussed below. For the current exposition it suffices to indicate (a) the wife’s right unilaterally to demand divorce and (b) its being based on a ketubbah stipulation. 6. The Geonic enactment was a response to specific historical circumstances. A growth in wives’ appealing to Muslim courts led to the fear of a coerced get (get me’use) and probably also to the fear of conversion to Islam. The Geonim responded by improving the wife’s legal power in family matters deliberated in Jewish courts. This is explicitly stated in some Geonic responsa, such as Rav Sherira’s responsum, Teshuvot Ha-Geonim, Sha‘are Tsedek, vol. 4, 4:15 (‫כשראו חכמים שבנות ישראל‬ ‫הולכות ונתלות בגויים ליטול להן גטין באונס מבעליהן ויש כותבין גיטין באונס ומסתפק גט מעושה‬

34 2 | jou r na l of j ew ish st u di es Basically, these are two different legal constructions: the first sees the right in question as contractual, while the other sees it as granted by the general law. But are they really different? Both traditions construct legal routes to unilateral divorce. Both traditions are linked – although in different ways – to the Talmudic sources of the law of the rebellious wife. And in both traditions the constitutive authority of a bet din (a rabbinical court) to annul the marriage plays a significant role (see below).7 The relationships between these traditions are not completely clear: are they independent, without any direct connection – as described above: contractual vs. normative – but having some similar characteristics as a result of their similar historical environment or common cultural background? Or are they connected, perhaps even reflecting similar legal constructions but only expressed differently, having the same normative basis and with some reciprocal influence between them? And what role – if at all – does the authority of the Rabbis to annul marriage (hafka‘at kiddushin) play in these rulings? Clarifying the relations between these traditions requires us to define the character of divorce in both cases. Initially we need to distinguish ‘between the right to demand a divorce or initiate divorce proceedings the right or power to perform the formalities necessary … to dissolve an existing marriage’.8 The two traditions are similar in the first aspect: both are cases of divorce initiated by the wife. But it is not clear what procedures are taken in order to execute the divorce when the wife justifiably demands it. It is implausible to assume that, according to these traditions, the wife not only initiates divorce proceedings but also executes them. Typically, divorce in ‫)בדין או שלא בדין וקא נפיק מינה חורבא‬.

See Elimelech Westreich, ‘The Rise and Decline of the Law of the Rebellious Wife in Medieval Jewish Law’, Jewish Law Association Studies 12 (2002), 217–18 (hereinafter: E. Westreich, Rise and Decline); Brody, Ha-Geonim, supra n.3, 295. 7. We focus here on the legal history of these traditions and possible mutual relationships between them. However, some reference should be made to sociological and cultural aspects of them. In this respect, we may point to similar background: both traditions were influenced by the Muslim legalcultural environment. Regarding the Genizah ketubbot, this and other social and cultural aspects are discussed by Goitein; see S.D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society, vol. III: The Family (Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press, 1978), 260–72. As to Muslim influence on the Geonic tradition, see previous note. 8. Robert Brody, ‘Evidence for Divorce by Jewish Women?’, Journal of Jewish Studies 50 (1999), 230; Ranon Katzoff, ‘Legal Commentary’, in N. Lewis, R. Katzoff and J.C. Greenfield, ‘Papyrus Yadin 18. I. Text, Translation and Notes (NL), II. Legal Commentary (RK), III. The Aramaic Subscription (JCG)’, Israel Exploration Journal 37 (1987), 244 (hereinafter: Katzoff, Papyrus).

d i v o r c e o n d e m a n d | 3 43 Jewish Law, as unanimously accepted in Talmudic sources from the Tannaitic era and onwards, is executed by a get delivered by the husband to his wife. While this statement is controversial regarding some early Jewish traditions, as may be seen from one of the Judaean Desert documents and from the Elephantine documents, in Talmudic sources we do not find any contradictory precedents, i.e. sources which reflect divorce executed by the wife.9 But we do find rare cases in which divorce is executed by a constitutive act of the bet din, i.e. annulment of marriage.10 In addition, there are cases (or at least a halakhic possibility) in which a terminative condition retroactively annuls the marriage.11 So what are the precise divorce procedures according to these Geonic and Palestinian traditions? Does the fact that divorce is initiated by the wife against the husband’s will produce the use of a unique procedure, which performs the necessary formalities without the husband’s participation?

9. See Brody, supra n.6. Under discussion are a divorce document and a marriage document from the second century CE, found in the Judaean Desert. Some scholars understand the divorce document as (or as referring to) a writ of divorce written by the wife, and similarly (but less explicitly), the marriage document was interpreted as providing the wife with this power; see Bernard S. Jackson, ‘Some Reflections on Family Law in the Papyri’, Jewish Law Association Studies 14 (2002), 141–77 (hereinafter: Jackson, Papyri). Others interpret it as a document relating to divorce, where the writ was issued by the husband (Brody, supra n.6, 230–4), and also reject the power attributed to the marriage document; see Katzoff, Papyrus, supra n. 8, 246. The Elephantine documents are also discussed as a precedent for divorce executed by the wife. However, unlike Babatha’s document, which reflects the halakhic environment, and therefore challenges the above assumptions, the Elephantine documents do not raise any problem, even if divorce there was indeed executed by the wife. They reflect a syncretistic community/culture, and their divorce law may be similarly regarded (see Brody, supra n. 6, 231; Katzoff, Papyrus, supra n. 8, 245–7; and compare Jackson, ibid., 173–7). 10. See Avishalom Westreich, ‘Annulment of Marriage (Hafka‘at Kiddushin): Re-examination of an Old Debate’, Working Papers of the Agunah Research Unit no. 11, 2008, http://www.mucjs.org/ Annulment.pdf, 1–4 (hereinafter: Westreich, Annulment) (for an expanded Hebrew version, see Avishalom Westreich, ‘Hafka‘at Kiddushin ba-Mekorot ha-Talmudiyim: Le-Shorshav shel Pulmus Hadash-Yashan’, Sidra 27, forthcoming, 2012). I refer here to constitutive annulment, in which the marriage is valid until the bet din or the Rabbis make it invalid. Their act of invalidation is therefore a constitutive act. In declarative annulment, on the other hand, the function of the bet din is merely to reveal that the marriage is (already) invalid. This is done by declaring the marriage a mistaken marriage or by using an implied condition which is in fact ascribed to the parties (see Avishalom Westreich, ‘‘Umdena as a Ground for Marriage Annulment: Between Mistaken Transaction (Kiddushei Ta’ut) and Terminative Condition’, Jewish Law Association Studies 20 (2010), 330–52). 11. As regards the debate concerning the halakhic legitimation of conditional marriage, see Yehudah Abel, ‘The Plight of the ‘Agunah and Conditional Marriage’, Working Papers of the Agunah Research Unit no. 4, 2008, http://www.mucjs.org/MELILAH/2005/1.pdf. Normally, conditional marriage is rejected in practice (see Abel, ibid). However, it is sometimes used implicitly, under the Talmudic construction of ‘ada’ata de-hakhi lo kidsha nafsha’ (‘she was not betrothed with this intension’; according to a widespread interpretation of this construction); see Westreich, ‘Umdena, supra n. 10, 335–41.

34 4 | jou r na l of j ew ish st u di es Annulment as a basis for the similar traditions Background Annulment of marriage is mentioned in various contexts in the Babylonian Talmud. A number of famous Talmudic passages discuss the concept of hafka‘ah, according to which the Rabbis have ‘expropriated’ the betrothal from the husband, or: the Rabbis annulled the marriage (‫אפקעינהו רבנן‬ ‫)לקידושין מיניה‬. In a similar way the Palestinian Talmud, when discussing a case where a writ of divorce was halakhically void but validated by the Rabbis, mentions the notion of ‘their [i.e. the Rabbis’] words uproot the words of the Torah’, according to which the Rabbis have the authority to annul the marriage in certain circumstances.12 In an earlier paper I discussed the concept of annulment of marriage in the Talmud,13 showing that this concept is developed in the Talmudic passage through three main stages: (a) At the first stage, annulment (or, better: ‘quasi-annulment’) means that the Rabbis validate an (externally flawed) get. This refers to a case in which the husband gave his wife a valid get and later invalidated it, but the Rabbis re-validated the get. It need hardly be said that the question of prospective vs. retroactive annulment is irrelevant according to this view, since ‘annulment’ here is in fact divorce performed by a get as in all normal cases, the involvement of the Rabbis simply being the validation of that get. (b) At the second stage some Amoraim, due to wider questions of the authority of the Rabbis, interpreted the concept of annulment as a prospective annulment of marriage. Here, the Rabbis assume the authority to terminate marriage without any act taken by the husband, and the termination is valid from that point onward. (c) At the third stage hafka‘at kiddushin becomes retroactive annulment of the marriage. This conceptual change is made by explaining hafka‘ah as an annulment of the act of betrothal; when, therefore, it is applied after the betrothal has taken place, it means that the betrothal is retroactively annulled.14

12. See BT, Yevamot 90b; 110a; Ketubbot, 3a; Gittin, 33a; 73a; Bava Batra, 48b; PT Gittin, 4:2, 45c. For the exact context of these passages, see Westreich, Annulment, supra n. 10, section 2. 13. See Westreich, Annulment, supra n. 10. 14. Ibid., 8–10.

d i v o r c e o n d e m a n d | 3 45 The last stage reflects the view of the Talmudic redactor, and was accepted by most Talmudic commentators.15 In principle, according to this stage, the Rabbis have a wide authority, such that their act does not require a get to be given.16 However, due to interpretative difficulties and some other considerations (policy, metahalakhic, etc.), many commentators demand that some additional element – either an invalid get (get kol dehu), one witness of the husband’s death, or something else – be present when applying hafka‘ah.17 Hafka‘at kiddushin can therefore be a halakhic tool by which divorce18 initiated by the wife is performed. In addition, following the view of some Talmudic commentators, it can accompany other halakhic tools and give or strengthen their validity. The next question to be discussed is whether the two traditions, the Palestinian and the Babylonian, were familiar with the concept of annulment, and if so, in what form. We have a partial answer to this question. In the Palestinian tradition at the time of the Cairo Genizah ketubbot, it is hard to find indications of familiarity with the concept of hafka‘ah in any of its forms19 (besides the divorce clause itself, if indeed the latter used hafka‘ah, which we shall presently discuss). However, the predecessors of this tradition were familiar with some version of annulment. The Palestinian Talmud was familiar with hafka‘ah as the first limited stage ((a) above), i.e. validating an invalid get: ‘the Torah said that [the get] is void [when the husband cancels it], while they [= the Rabbis]

15. See Berachyahu Lifshitz, ‘Afke’inhu Rabanan le-Kiddushin Minayhu’, in Mi-Perot ha-Kerem (Yavneh: Yeshivat Kerem Beyavneh, 2004), 317–19. 16. Compare Eliav Shochetman, ‘Hafka‘at Kiddushin’, Shenaton Hamishpat Haivri 20 (1995–1997), 349–97 (hereinafter: Shochetman, Hafka‘at Kiddushin). Shochetman seems to prefer the view that demands a get in order to apply annulment, and sees the get as a substantive element in the process of annulment (i.e. annulment means validating an invalid get). This view is influenced by the first Talmudic stratum (a) above. However, in the last stage get is not required, or is required as an additional, not substantive, element; see below. 17. Westreich, Annulment, supra n. 10, 10–13. Some Talmudic commentators (e.g. the Tosafist Ri Halavan) followed the first Talmudic stage, and demanded a get as a substantial part of annulment; see Shmuel Atlas, Netivim ba-Mishpat ha-Ivri (New York: American Academy for Jewish Research, 1978), 211–14; Shochetman, Hafka‘at Kiddushin, supra n. 16, 356–65 (both scholars seem to adopt that view). 18. I.e. termination of marriage, since according to stages (b) and (c) above, there is no formal divorce (a get given by the husband to the wife) but rather an annulment (retroactive or prospective) of marriage executed by the court. 19. This may be a result of the character of the sources: legal documents rather than theoretical writings.

346 | jou r na l of j ew ish st u di es said that it is not void [i.e. the husband’s cancellation is invalid]’.20 However, the Palestinian Talmud bases this view on the wide concept of: ‘their [i.e. the Rabbis’] words uproot the words of the Torah’ (‫)דבריהן עוקרין דברי תורה‬, which means that the Rabbis have the authority (in appropriate cases) to rule against Torah laws. Since the Rabbis have authority to ‘uproot the words of the Torah’, we may theoretically assume that the Palestinian tradition could even accept an expanded version of hafka‘ah, i.e. complete annulment of marriage, prospective or retroactive, and even without a get. According to either option – a limited version of annulment or an expanded one – it is plausible that later generations in this tradition accepted this concept, following the Palestinian Talmud. Turning to the Geonic tradition, we do find explicit references to annulment of marriage, as in the following Geonic responsum:21 Our grandfather, teacher, and Rabbi, Judah Gaon, enacted for them that they should not betroth other than by the Babylonian procedure: with ketubbah, witnesses’ signature, and betrothal blessing. And as for one who does not follow this procedure, he enacted that [we] disregard his betrothal [lit. him], since we say: ‘everyone who betroths [a woman], does so subject to the will of the Rabbis, and the Rabbis annul his betrothal.’ You should cancel such a custom [which does not follow Judah Gaon's procedure] as well.

In fact, this responsum deals with a case of improper betrothal (i.e. when the betrothal was not according to the Geonic enactment), in which hafka‘ah can be applied more easily.22 Nevertheless, the Gaon uses here the concept as found in the Talmud, which in principle gives him a wider authority, including termination of marriage long after its creation. The sources therefore do not provide direct proof of the use of retroactive annulment in the traditions here discussed; rather they reveal different levels of familiarity with it. Nevertheless, they do potentially validate its wider use. The question now to be discussed is whether annulment in its wider form was applied in our two specific traditions: the Palestinian ketubbot and the Geonic rebellious wife.

20. PT, Gittin, 4:2, 45c; see Westreich, Annulment, supra n. 10, 5, 9. 21. Rav Hai Gaon, Otsar ha-Geonim, Ketubbot, 7b, 18–19. 22. This point is strongly reflected in the modern disputes regarding retroactive annulment versus annulment at time of marriage: see Westreich, Annulment, supra n. 10, p. 1, n. 6.

d i v o r c e o n d e m a n d | 3 47 Mere annulment or coercion? Rabbenu Asher ben Jehiel (Rosh) describes the Geonic rule of the rebellious wife as follows (She’elot u-Teshuvot ha-Rosh, 43:8): And they enacted that the husband should divorce his wife against his will when she says: I do not want my husband … For they relied on this [dictum]: ‘Everyone who betroths, does so subject to the will of the Rabbis’, and they agreed to annul the marriage when a woman rebels against her husband.

According to Rosh, the Geonic enactment of coerced divorce in a case of a rebellious wife is based on annulment of the marriage. One may argue that the annulment does not even require a get given by the husband, i.e. in this kind of case there is a constitutive verdict of the bet din that the marriage is annulled, and this decision effects the couple’s divorce.23 Some suggested support for this interpretation has been derived from the plural formulation of the law of the rebellious wife in some Geonic writings:24 We make her wait twelve months, and then we give her her get.25

Or, regarding the writing of the get: ‘they write her a get immediately’ (‫)וכתבי לה גט לאלתר‬.26 According to this approach, this statement is understood as a writ of divorce written and given by the bet din, which means that divorce is executed without the participation of the husband. Rosh’s quotation above gives the normative basis for this possible interpretation: divorce by constitutive annulment of marriage upon the wife’s demand. As we have concluded from the Geonic responsum cited above,27 the concept of annulment was known 23. This is the view of Prof. Jackson: see Jackson, Papyri, supra n. 9, at 162; Bernard S. Jackson, ‘Preliminary Report of the Agunah Research Unit’, Working Papers of the Agunah Research Unit no. 8, 2006, http://www.mucjs.org/PrelimRep.pdf, 17–19 (hereinafter: Jackson, Preliminary Report). 24. Jackson, ibid. 25. Aramaic: ‘‫’ומשהינן לה תריסר ירחי שתא והדר יהבינן לה גיטא‬, see Halakhot Gedolot, Hilkhot Ketubbot 36. Similarly in Teshuvot ha-Geonim (Harkavi edition), 71: ‘‫ובתר גמרא תקינו רבנן דאפילו‬ ‫ ויהבינן לה גיטא לאלתר‬,‫ ;’מאי דתפיסא מהפקינן ליה מינה‬Teshuvot ha-Geonim (Geonim Kadmonim), 91. In She’elot u-Teshuvot Maharam me-Ruthenburg, Prague ed., 443 (in the name of Rav Sherira Gaon) we find ‘giving’ in the plural formulation, but in Hebrew: ‘‫( ’נותנין לה גט מיד‬the Hebrew formulation is found also in Shut Maharam me-Ruthenburg, Lemberg ed., 443, in the name of R. Samuel ben R. Ali, the twelfth-century head of the Yeshivah of Baghdad). See also Mordechai A. Friedman, Ribuy Nashim be-Israel (Tel Aviv: Bialik Institute, 1986), 15 n. 44e. 26. Cited in She’elot u-Teshuvot Maharam me-Ruthenburg, Prague ed., 261, in the name of Teshuvot ha-Geonim. A major weakness of this argument is that in many responsa plural and singular formulations are used together, without making any distinction between them; see below. 27. See supra, text to notes 21–22.

348 | jou r na l of j ew ish st u di es and used. This interpretation of the law of the rebellious wife is therefore a possible expansion of the concept of annulment, based on the way that annulment was understood later.28 Similarly, some scholars have argued that the Palestinian tradition is based on a variation of marriage annulment.29 One of the Cairo Genizah ketubbot states the divorce clause as follows:30 And if this ‘Aziza, the bride, should hate this Mevasser, her husband, and not desire his partnership … and she will go out by the authorization of the court and with the consent of our masters, the sages.

‘By the authorization of the court and with the consent of our masters, the sages’ (‘‫ )’על פום בית דינה ועל דעתיהון‬means, according to this view, a constitutive divorce by the court. Accordingly, this stipulation gives the authority to the bet din to decide when marriage should be terminated, similarly to the plural formulation of the Geonic dicta above, e.g. ‘‫יהבינן‬ ‫’לה גיטא‬. Thus, when the wife ‘hates’ her husband and unilaterally desire a separation, she may exit the marriage, based on the court’s final decision (which very likely means a prospective termination of the marriage31). Interpreting the Babylonian and the Palestinian traditions as using constitutive annulment produces the following model: we have a positive law basis for constitutive annulment of marriage by the court with no get given by the husband, but we need to clarify the authority for applying it in practice to a recalcitrant husband. At this point the tradition develops into two branches: on the one hand, annulment based on agreement of the spouses (Land of Israel), on the other, annulment based on a legal decree (Geonim). 28. Michael Broyde, Marriage, Divorce and the Abandoned Wife in Jewish Law (Hoboken, NJ: Ktav, 2001), 19–20, 60–1, 160 n. 3, seems to accept this view as historically correct. According to Broyde, following Rosh, the Geonic ruling of the rebellious wife was based on annulment, and if the husband refused to divorce his wife and coercion was not possible, the marriage could be annulled even without compelling him to give a get. Nevertheless, Broyde is not willing to adopt this view for practice today; see ibid., 20: ‘such annulments remain a dead letter in modern Jewish law’; 61: ‘… the nearly insurmountable halachic objections to a return to halachic rules that have not been normative for 800 years.’ Below, however, we take an opposite view, both historically and dogmatically. 29. See Friedman, Jewish Marriage, supra n. 1, at 336 n. 78 (this was Friedman’s initial view, but he abandoned it entirely; see ibid.); Jackson, Papyri, supra n. 9, 161–2; Jackson, Preliminary Report, supra n. 23, 3–4. 30. Ketubbah no. 1, lines 23–24, in Friedman, Jewish Marriage, II, 9 (Heb.); 13 (translation). 31. I.e. the second stage of the development of the concept of annulment (see supra, text to notes 13–17). The authority for annulment in the Palestinian divorce clause, however, is not the authority to ‘uproot the words of the Torah’, but a contractual agreement between the spouses.

Interpreting the Babylonian and the Palestinian traditions as using constitutive annulment produces the following model: we have a positive law basis for constitutive annulment of marriage by the court with no get given by the husband, but we need to clarify the authority for applying it in practice to a recalcitrant husband. At this point the tradition develops into

di vorce on de m a n d | 349

two branches: on the one hand, annulment based on agreement of the spouses (Land of Israel), on the other, annulment based on a legal decree (Geonim).

Indeed, according to this view, there is no need to assume any direct

Indeed, according to this view, there is no need to assume directclause: historical historical connection between the Geonic decree and theany divorce oneconnection between the Geonic decree the divorce clause:and onemight tradition influenced the tradition may not haveand influenced the other, notmay evennot behave familiar

with However, both be traditions similar substantive basis, which other, andit.might not even familiar had witha it. However, both traditions had a similar justifiedbasis, annulment marriage. This basis may be found in themay Talmudic substantive which of justified annulment of marriage. This basis be found in the 32 32 sources,sources, which discuss annulment of marriage by the bet Thedin. schema Talmudic which discuss annulment of marriage by din. the bet The schema

accordingly is as follows:

accordingly is as follows:

normative sources (Talmud)

annulment of marriage (hafka‘at kiddushin)

Palestinian tradition (Genizah ketubbot)

Babylonian tradition (Geonim)

agreement: authority for annulment is based on spouse's preliminary agreement

norm: a general enactment of the Geonim provides authority for making annulment

Yet, from a historical point of view, in my opinion, this description is doubtful, in regard to both the Palestinian divorce clause and the Geonim. Rosh’s explanation of takkanat ha-Ge’onim (the enactment of the Geonim) 31 I.e., the second stage of the development of the concept of annulment (see section 2(a) above). The authority for as hafka‘ah is anachronistic. The Geonim based their view on the Talmud (or at annulment in the Palestinian divorce clause, however, is not the authority to “uproot the words of the Torah,” but a least: on a decree of the Savoraim, as cited at the final stage in the Talmudic contractual agreement between the spouses. 32 which coercion of a get in cases of a rebellious wife,33 Seepassage), Section 2(a) above.legitimated  without relating it to annulment. This is explicitly stated in some Geonic responsa, as the following from Rav Sherira:34  --

32. See previous section. 33. See Avishalom Westreich, ‘Compelling a Divorce? Early Talmudic Roots of Coercion in a Case of Moredet’, Working Papers of the Agunah Research Unit no. 9, 2008, http://www.mucjs.org/Moredet.pdf, 2 (hereinafter: Westreich, Moredet). For an expanded Hebrew version, see Avishalom Westreich, ‘Al Kefiyat Get be-Hilkhat ha-Moredet ba-Mishnah u-va-Talmud’, Mehkere Mishpat 25 (2009), 563–91. 34. Teshuvot Ha-Geonim, Sha‘are Tsedek, vol. 4, 4:15. Both Friedman and Brody assume that this view was largely accepted by the Geonim: see Friedman, Jewish Marriage, supra n. 1, 324–5; Brody, Ha-Geonim, supra n. 3, 298–9.

350 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s This is our opinion [lit. we saw in the following way]: the original law was that [the bet din35] does not oblige36 the husband to divorce his wife if she asks to divorce … Later … Nevertheless [the bet din] did not oblige the husband to write her a get37… [Later the Rabbis] enacted that when she demands divorce [the bet din] makes her wait twelve months perhaps they reconcile, but if they do not reconcile after twelve months [the bet din] compels the husband and he writes her a get.38 After the Savoraim … [the Geonim] enacted … and [the bet din] coerces the husband and he writes her a get immediately [upon her demand] and she gets the hundred or two hundred [zuz (= a silver coin), of her ketubbah]. This is the way that we have ruled for three hundred years and more. You should also act in this way.

According to Rav Sherira, the procedure of divorce in a case of a rebellious wife is by a coerced get, and the Talmudic passage of the rebellious wife is the source for it. This passage is a sufficient basis for this ruling, and no additional normative basis is required.39 As for the use of the plural formulation, this should be understood in the light of Rav Sherira’s explicit statement (and others, see below) as referring to the act of coercion which is performed by the court. ‘‫ ’יהבינן לה גיטא‬or ‘‫ ’כתבי לה גט‬is a short formulation for ‘we [i.e. the bet din] coerce the husband and he writes [or: gives] her a get,’ as in this Geonic responsum (‘‫כופין את‬ ‫)’הבעל וכותב לה גט‬.40 It is remarkable that in some responsa plural and singular formulations are used together in reference to the giving of the get, without intending any distinction between them. For example: ‘the Geonim enacted … we try to make peace between them, and if she does not accept [we, the court] 35. I added ‘the bet din’ when the Gaon refers to the judicial act. When he refers to the enactment I added ‘Rabbis’ for the first two enactments and ‘Geonim’ for the last one. 36. Verb in plural (‘‫)’מחייבין‬. Similarly, all the judicial acts below are formulated in the plural (‘‫)’כופין‘ ;’מכריזין‘ ;’מחייבין‬, in contrast with the actual writing of the get: ‘‫( ’וכותב לה גט‬see below). 37. Compare Westreich, Moredet, supra n. 33, section 3, where I argued that Rashi’s view (which is supported by a simple reading of the sources) is that coercion of a get was possible already at this Talmudic stage. Rav Sherira, however, ascribes it to the last Talmudic stage; see next note. 38. This enactment is the final section of the Talmudic passage (‘‫ומשהינן לה תריסר ירחי שתא‬ ‫’אגיטא‬, Ketubbot 64a), which Rav Sherira ascribes to the Savoraim. 39. Even if we interpret annulment as validating an invalid get, as some have suggested (see Westreich, Annulment, supra n.10, 10–11; Shochetman, Hafka‘at Kiddushin, supra n. 16, 356–65), it is still not required for our case. The get is a valid get since we deal here with a legitimate coercion. 40. Perhaps the plural formulation was also influenced by the Talmudic style of the passage of the rebellious wife, which uses a plural formulation: ‘‫( ’ומשהינן לה תריסר ירחי שתא אגיטא‬we make her wait twelve months for her divorce). Indeed, we find these two judicial acts cited together in the quotation from Halakhot Gedolot above (‘‫ ]ו[יהבינן‬...‫)’ומשהינן‬. Thus, just as the waiting period is executed by the bet din, so is the giving of the get, but the actual giving is done by the husband who is compelled to do so by the bet din.

d i v o r c e o n d e m a n d | 351 give [plural] her a get immediately (‫ … )נותנין לה גט לאלתר‬and so wrote Rav Hai … the earlier Geonim enacted that [we, the court] compel her husband immediately to give a get (‫)שכופין את בעלה מיד ליתן גט‬.’ 41 The plural formulation of ‘giving her a get’ thus means ‘compelling her husband to give a get’. To be sure, this and the other responsa42 are based on different Geonic sources. Nevertheless, it is implausible to assume that they reflect a dispute between the Geonim regarding the procedure of the law of the rebellious wife (or different traditions regarding the actual enactment of the Geonim). If indeed this significant dispute had taken place, it would have been reflected more sharply and in a more explicit way. The plural formulation, therefore, reflects different styles and formulations of the same ruling: compelling the husband to give a get. So why did Rosh mention annulment? The dogmatic halakhah had developed in a direction different from that of the Geonim. The Geonic view was totally rejected by Rabbenu Tam, who argued that there is no basis in the Talmud for compelling divorce in such a case.43 Rabbenu Tam’s view was largely accepted;44 therefore the Geonic view needed justification. Rosh very limitedly accepted the Geonic view (only in certain bedi’avad [ex post] cases),45 and attempted to provide some justification for it by interpreting it as entailing annulment. In this way, Rosh could both adhere to Rabbenu Tam’s view, that a coerced get in a case of a rebellious wife is not found in the Talmud, while at the same time legitimating the Geonic measures (ex post). In any case, Rosh did not intend to introduce a different procedure for

41. She’elot uTeshuvot Maharam me-Ruthenburg, Lemberg ed., 443. See also She’elot u-Teshuvot Maharam me-Ruthenburg, Prague ed., 261: the first part of the responsum (cited in some manuscripts in the name of Rabbenu Gershom Me’or ha-Golah) uses a singular formulation (‘‫ויהיב לה גיטא‬ ‫)’לאלתר‬, the middle part (in the name of Teshuvot ha-Geonim) uses a plural formulation (‘‫וכתבי לה‬ ‫)’גט לאלתר‬, and the last part (in the name of Halakhot Gedolot) uses a singular formulation again (‘‫)’וכותב לה גט לאלתר‬. The same phenomenon is documented in She’elot u-Teshuvot Maharam me-Ruthenburg, Prague ed., 443. 42. See previous note. 43. See Sefer ha-Yashar le-Rabbenu Tam, Teshuvot, 24. It is arguable whether this total rejection of the Geonic view was indeed held by Rabbenu Tam (see Yehudah Abel, ‘Rabbi Morgenstern’s Agunah Solution’, Working Papers of the Agunah Research Unit, no. 5, 2008, http://www.mucjs.org/Morg.pdf, 18 n. 57; idem, ‘A Critique of Za’aqat Dalot’, Working Papers of the Agunah Research Unit, no. 6, 2008, http://www.mucjs.org/ZD.pdf, 10–11). However, later Rishonim attributed that view to Rabbenu Tam, and largely accepted it (see E. Westreich, Rise and Decline, supra n. 6, 212–18). This fact led to the reinterpretation of the Geonic view, as described below. 44. See E. Westreich, ibid. 45. See below.

35 2 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s cases of a rebellious wife, but rather to base the problematic enactment by the Geonim of coercion on their authority of annulment.46 Historically, therefore, it is hard to accept Rosh as a support for the view which sees the Geonic rule of the rebellious wife as based on annulment. The procedure of divorce in the law of the rebellious wife is merely performing a compelled get, and, according to the Geonic responsum cited above, this get was a regular get given by the husband (although under the pressure of the bet din). This law is based on normative sources, i.e. the Talmudic passage of the rebellious wife, but in order to reconcile it with different views regarding those sources Rosh anachronistically suggested the reasoning of annulment. However, the view of Rosh is important from a dogmatic point of view, as will be discussed below.47 According to the analysis of Rosh here suggested, the procedure of the rebellious wife is not merely an annulment of marriage but rather a divorce by a coerced get, while the authority for it is derived from the authority to annul marriage. Another responsum of Rosh supports this view. In it,48 Rosh justifies coercion of a get due to special circumstances.49 Rosh then discusses the possibility of annulment: But if it looks to you, my masters, who are close to this matter, that the betrothing man is not a person worthy and decent to marry this girl of good descent, and that he has persuaded her by fraud and cheating, and that it is reasonable to compare [this case] to the case of Naresh (BT Yevamot 110a) where we learned that since it (the betrothal) was done improperly [the Rabbis] annulled the betrothal – [then in the case of] this [person] as well, who acted improperly, although we would not annul the betrothal, nevertheless we should follow in this case the view of some of our Rabbis who ruled in the law of the rebellious wife that [the bet din] should compel him to divorce her.

Annulment, according to Rosh, should not be applied here. However, the partial similarity between the Talmudic case of annulment and the current 46. See also Shochetman, Hafka‘at Kiddushin, supra n. 16, 377. 47. See below, text to notes 77–85. 48. She’elot u-Teshuvot ha-Rosh, 35: 2. 49. The husband is suspected as an immodest man who cheated his betrothed wife (see citation below). This case is similar to that of Naresh in which, according to Rav Ashi, the Rabbis applied annulment since ‘he acted improperly’ (BT Yevamot 110a), as cited by Rosh. Rosh’s reasoning is probably that in such a case it is right to apply the Geonic rule of the rebellious wife since there is no ‘moral fear’ which usually prevents it (see She’elot u-Teshuvot ha-Rosh, 43:8). On the role of the ‘moral fear’ in Rosh’s view, see Suzanne Knol, ‘An Historical Overview of Some Overt Ideological Factors in the Development of the Agunah Problem’, PhD diss., Manchester, 2008, §3.5.

d i v o r c e o n d e m a n d | 353 case legitimates coercion in the latter. Due to its special circumstances, Rosh argues, we can follow the view that supports coercion in cases of a rebellious wife, i.e. the Geonic view, which was normally rejected by Rosh. If the Geonic law of the rebellious wife were merely a procedure of annulment, Rosh’s discussion in this responsum would be superfluous or even internally contradictory: we cannot apply annulment, but we can apply the rule of the rebellious wife – which is the same. We must assume therefore that they are different halakhic procedures: the one is coercion of a get, i.e. a divorce executed by the husband (against his will), while the other is annulment executed by the bet din. However, we can see here that there is a relationship between the two, since they are ultimately based on the same reasoning. This is reflected also in Rosh’s view, which supports the Geonic coercion by the concept of annulment, as discussed above. Thus, integrating Rosh’s two responsa (35:2, which exceptionally authorizes coercion, and 43:8, which explains the Geonic rebellious wife on the basis of annulment) produces the following explanation: the law of the rebellious wife is partially based on annulment (specifically, in terms of the authority for it), but the procedure includes a coerced get. Since it includes a get it can be more easily applied than can termination by mere annulment of marriage. The case in 35:2 is similar to the Talmudic annulment, but for particular reasons does not admit of annulment.50 However, the second possibility, coercion based on annulment, may be applied in such a case. Let us now examine the possibility of annulment in the Palestinian divorce clause. ‘By the authorization of the court’ (‘‫ )’על פום בית דינה‬might be interpreted as a constitutive decision of the court, without a get. However, we should be suspicious of any such interpretation. The divorce clause is also found in a second ketubbah, but in a slightly different form:51 And if this Rachel, the bride, hates this Nathan, her husband, and does not desire his partnership, she shall lose the delayed payment of her mohar [see infra, n. 66] and shall take what she brought in, and she shall not leave, except by the authorization of the court.

50. Rosh does not detail the reasons for not applying it. It might be that this case is not as improper as the Talmudic case, or it may reflect a hesitation to apply annulment in practice; see below, text to notes 82–5. 51. Ketubbah no. 2, lines 33–4, in: Friedman, Jewish Marriage, supra n. 1, II.41 (Heb.); 44–5 (translation).

35 4 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s ‘Except by the authorization of the court’ is a phrase which provides an exception. Adopting the interpretation of this clause as an annulment makes the exception unclear: annulment is a judicial act, which obviously is performed by the court, so what does this phrase exclude? According to this interpretation the term means: she shall leave only by the court, i.e. not by a (voluntarily given) get. This is surely not the intention of this text. It is more likely that the divorce clause does not replace a get but rather enforces it. According to these Palestinian conditions, in a case of hatred, on the wife’s unilateral demand, the husband should give her a get. A get is not a judicial act but a document written by the husband. We could think about private ways of forcing him to give the get, justifying it by the divorce clause. So emphasis is required: compelling the husband to give a get should be done only ‘by the authorization of the court’.52 I accept that I have not found decisive support for either of the possible procedures (annulment or coercion). However, the history of the halakhah further supports the option of coercion. Get in the rabbinical tradition is a central matter and difficult to overcome.53 Accepting the annulment theory requires us to assume that a condition (in the Land of Israel) or a decree (in Babylonia) adopted such a radical practice, which dispenses with the need for a get, with no explicit discussion and with no reservations. I suspect that if such a decision had been taken, it would not have been left in silence, with no explicit mention either in the decree or in the ketubbah, without being accompanied by a deep halakhic discussion and without at least some objections.54

The divorce clause as the basis of Geonic coercion Above we discussed a hypothesis which linked the Geonic tradition and the Palestinian ketubbot, describing them as two branches of a single legal 52. See also Katzoff, Papyrus, supra n. 8, 246: ‘to make it crystal clear that no right or powers of divorce are provided the wife other than those in rabbinic law, it is stipulated that “‫ונפקה על פום‬ ...‫’”בית דינה‬. 53. Reflected, for example, in BT Ketubbot 74a: ‘‫ להוציאה בלא גט‬...‫’ולא היה כח‬, i.e. even in cases where there is some theoretical basis for annulling the marriage, the Rabbis do not have the authority to release the wife without a get. Interestingly, amongst some Karaite sages around the fifteenth century there was a practice of authorizing annulment of marriage by a bet din without requiring a get; see Ze’ev Falk, Tevi’at Gerushin mi-Zad ha-’Isha be-Dine Israel (Jerusalem: Institute for Legislative Research and Comparative Law, 1973), 25–26 (hereinafter: Falk, Gerushin). 54. The later objections relate to the legitimation of coercion. Only Rosh raised the issue of annulment, and even he, as analysed above, treated it as a support for coercion.

d i v o r c e o n d e m a n d | 355 construction (hafka‘ah), based on a similar normative source. But we did not accept that hypothesis, preferring the view that a get was required in both traditions, and that both allowed such a get to be coerced. Accordingly we have to ask whether we can document such a link between the two traditions, in respect of coercion of a get. This link is made by Me’iri’s teachers’ teachers,55 who argue that the normative basis for the Geonic compulsion of a get in the case of a rebellious wife is R. Yoseh’s clause in the Palestinian Talmud:56 R. Yoseh said: For those who write [a stipulation in the marriage contract]: ‘if he grows to hate her or she grows to hate him’, it is considered a condition of monetary payment, and their condition is valid.

What is the exact meaning of the link between the two traditions? Me’iri opposed coercion in cases of a rebellious wife.57 His discussion of the Geonic measures relates to their financial enactments, according to which the wife would not lose her basic ketubbah (and other monetary components).58 Me’iri rejects these enactments (‘it is not correct to rule like them’), but then cites his teachers’ teachers who find some support for the Geonim in the customary Palestinian divorce clause. Accordingly, the link between the two traditions does not relate to the coerced divorce but rather to the financial aspects of the rebellious wife. Nevertheless, taking the words of Me’iri’s teachers’ teachers (as cited in Me’iri’s commentary) out of their context in Me’iri’s text reveals a different intention: it appears that Me’iri’s teachers’ teachers tried to legitimate the coerced divorce itself and not (only) the financial aspects. Thus, they interpret ‘if she grows to hate him’ in R. Yoseh’s condition as: ‘if she grows to hate him, so that he is required to divorce her (‫ )שיזקק הוא לגרשה‬whether while [receiving] all the ketubbah or with a small reduction.’59 In the same way, 55. See Bet ha-Behirah, BT Ketubbot, 63a, s.v. ‘Zehu Din ha-Talmud be-Moredet’. Meiri’s teachers’ teachers explicitly link the Geonic rebellious wife to the divorce clause of the Palestinian Talmud. However, the Palestinian Talmud and the later Genizah ketubbot are part of a single tradition. M.A. Friedman even suggests that Meiri’s teachers’ teachers based themselves also on an actual ketubbah, and not only on the Palestinian Talmud; see below. 56. PT Ketubbot 5:9, 30b. 57. See Me’iri, ibid., s.v. ‘‘U-Gedoley ha-Meḥabrim’: ‘‫( ’ולדעתנו אין כופין‬according to our [i.e. Me’iri’s] opinion the husband is not coerced [to give a get]). 58. Ibid., s.v. ‘Zehu’ (‘‫’אלא שבעניין הגובינא חדשו הגאונים‬, i.e. in the financial [lit. collection] issue the Geonim innovated). 59. Similarly, they mention: ‘if she hates him she shall take her ketubbah or part of it and she shall

356 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s Me’iri’s teachers’ teachers refer to the fear that she may (unjustifiably) ‘take herself out of her husband’s control’ (‫ )להפקיע עצמה מיד בעלה‬as the reason for their seeking to find support for the Geonic ruling, which means that the wife had the option of unilateral divorce and this needed justification. The divorce clause accordingly gives the wife the right to initiate unilateral divorce, and the Geonic enactments were based on this custom. Me’iri’s teachers’ teachers’ argument is as follows: this condition was practiced not only in the Land of Israel, but was also known and used in Babylonia. Thus, the divorce clause was at first a widespread practice. Then the decree of the Geonim made it an obligatory norm, even when it was not written, thus authorizing them to compel a divorce in all such cases (or require different financial arrangements, according to Me’iri). This is similar to other cases defined in the Babylonian Talmud as ‘court stipulation’ (tnai bet din), i.e. a clause in the ketubbah (for example: benin dikhrin [a clause that gives preferential inheritance rights to the sons of this wife]), which became a binding practice, so that the spouses are obliged to follow it even if it is 60 Dogmatics, not written explicitly inHistory, their ketubbah. TheHermeneutics schema according to Me’iri’s teachers’ teachers is thus as follows: Palestinian tradition: divorce clause of the Palestinian Talmud

custom: widely used in Babylonia (divorce clause assumed to exist in Babylonian ketubbot)

norm: a general ruling of the Geonim made it a “court stipulation”

custom: practiced in the Land of Israel (divorce clause in Genizah ketubbot)

this branch is the innovation of Meiri’s teachers’ teachers

leave’ (‫)ותצא‬. The addition ‘‫ ’ותצא‬to the divorce clause in the Palestinian Talmud shows as well that

Some scholars accepted this view divorce. as historically correct.61 Amongst them, an they understood thishave clause as legitimating unilateral 60. See M Ketubbot 4:7–11. In the Palestinian ketubbot, however, the divorce clause was written.

62 interesting compromise view suggested bytheMoshe Shapira bases This may be explained as part of aisgeneral custom in Land of Shapira. Israel, according to which courtthe Geonic

stipulations were Palestinian frequently written, evenclause, though they were notMe’iri’s required. See Friedman, Jewish but in a tradition on the divorce following teachers’ teachers, Marriage, supra n. 1, 15–18, 330. This might also be the basis for the custom in several places of not

writing a ketubbah at all: see Rashi, Ketubbot 16b,of s.v.the ‘RavTalmudic Papa.’ unique way: as a cause for the BT cancellation 12 months’ waiting period and

not as a basis for compulsion of a get (or for other financial aspects). Therefore he argues as follows:63 (a) at first, there was a practice of writing the divorce clause, which became more and more widespread, to the extent that it became possible to coerce a divorce even if the divorce clause was not explicitly included.64 The divorce clause included, in addition to

d i v o r c e o n d e m a n d | 35 7 Some scholars have accepted this view as historically correct.61 Amongst them, an interesting compromise view is suggested by Moshe Shapira.62 Shapira bases the Geonic tradition on the Palestinian divorce clause, following Me’iri’s teachers’ teachers, but in a unique way: as a cause for the cancellation of the Talmudic 12 months’ waiting period and not as a basis for compulsion of a get (or for other financial aspects). Therefore he argues as follows:63 (a) at first, there was a practice of writing the divorce clause, which became more and more widespread, to the extent that it became possible to coerce a divorce even if the divorce clause was not explicitly included.64 The divorce clause included, in addition to unilateral divorce, the right of the wife to receive her ketubbah or part of it. (b) Thus, according to Shapira, the 12 months’ waiting period became otiose, since (based on the divorce clause) no sanctions were left during that period against the wife: she got alimony, and when divorced received her full ketubbah. (c) The Geonim ruled, therefore, that the coerced divorce should be effected immediately upon the wife’s demand, canceling the 12 months’ waiting period. However interesting this argument is, it is historically unconvincing. Shapira bases his argument on the claim that according to the divorce clause the wife receives her ketubbah (and thus that the 12 months’ waiting period lost its function). This claim is based on another citation of the divorce clause in the Palestinian Talmud, which gives the wife half of the ketubbah,65 and on Me’iri, who adds the option of receiving all of the ketubbah: ‘[the divorce clause stipulates that] if she hates him she will receive her ketubbah or part of it and leave.’ Historically, however, this is inaccurate: we do not find in the divorce clauses any precedents for receiving the ketubbah in full. Even receiving half the ketubbah was not the practice written into the Genizah ketubbot at the time of the Geonim, which always mention the wife’s total loss of the ketubbah.66 Thus, Shapira’s description of stage (a) above is doubtful 61. See Saul Lieberman, Hilkhot ha-Yerushalmi le-ha-Rambam (New York: Bet Hamidrash Lerabanim Be-America, 1948), 61 n. ‫ק‬. M. A. Friedman doubts whether this description is historically possible: see Friedman, Jewish Marriage, supra n. 1, 325–27, and see also below. 62. Moshe Shapira, ‘Gerushin be-Din Me’isa’, Dine Israel 2 (1971), 124–30 (hereinafter: Shapira, Gerushin). 63. Shapira, ‘Gerushin’, supra n. 62, mainly 129. 64. Since this argument explains the Geonic decree, we must assume (according to Shapira’s reasoning) that the process here described existed in Babylonia as well. 65. PT Ketubbot 7:6 31c. 66. According to Genizah ketubbot, the wife loses her ketubbah (mohar), but receives her dowry. Some ketubbot, however, distinguished between the delayed mohar payment, which was forfeited by

358 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s as to the wife’s receiving the ketubbah, and therefore his whole historical reconstruction becomes problematic. According to Shapira’s reasoning the 12 months’ waiting period was still relevant, since the wife could lose at least part of her ketubbah, and there the Geonic decree had no reason for cancelling this waiting period. Beyond these arguments, it is hard to accept Me’iri’s teachers’ teachers’ view, following either Shapira’s explanation or the classic interpretation of it, as a support for coerced divorce or for the financial arrangements. It is correct that the divorce clause was a common practice. Nevertheless, the Geonim do not refer to the Palestinian tradition of making such a condition as their normative basis. They refer rather to the Talmud as the source for coercion, and explain their decree as relating to the timing of coercion and to the monetary aspects.67 And even as regarding these latter details, the Geonim did not mention any contractual aspect (‘‫ )’תנאי ממון‬as their basis but rather the needs of their time.68 Indeed, it is possible that the Geonim were familiar with the Palestinian tradition (but not as a basis of their enactments). According to the following responsum, they interpret it as relating to the financial aspects of the law of the rebellious wife rather than to the basic right to demand divorce.69 This familiarity may be deduced from Rav Hai Gaon, who legitimates some kinds of financial arrangements in cases of the rebellious wife70 on the basis of: ‘since it is a condition of monetary payment, and it is valid’ (‘‫שתנאיי ממון‬ ‫)’הוא וקיים‬. This is almost word by word the Palestinian justification of the ketubbah clause,71 and it is cited here as a support for monetary aspects rather than for coercion. Yet, as mentioned above, even with regard to the financial

the wife, and the advanced portion (the muqdam), which was considered as her personal property and therefore was not returned to her husband; see Friedman, Jewish Marriage, supra n. 1, 333–5. 67. The exact monetary aspects of the Geonic enactment(s) are not clear, and were probably disputed by the Geonim themselves. See Brody, Ha-Geonim, supra n. 3, 300–4. 68. See Rav Sherira’s responsum, supra, text to notes 34–9. 69. The structure here suggested is similar to Me’iri himself, as discussed above, and to some other Talmudic commentators (see e.g. Nahmanides, BT Ketubbot 63b: when the couple explicitly stipulated that in a case of a rebellious wife the wife receives all her ketubbah, it is valid since it is ‘‫’תנאי ממון‬. As a support for this ruling Nahmanides quotes the Palestinian Talmud), but with a significant distinction: those Rishonim rejected coercion, while the Geonim supported it, but found its basis in the Talmud; see Westreich, Moredet, supra n. 33, 16 n. 99. 70. See Teshuvot ha-Geonim (Harkavi edition), 523. 71. In the Babylonian Talmud we find ‘‫( ’דבר שבממון תנאו קיים‬Ketubbot 56a), and similarly in the Tosefta (Kiddushin 3:8). The formula ‘‫ ’תנאי ממון הוא‬is unique to the Palestinian Talmud.

d i v o r c e o n d e m a n d | 359 aspect of the Geonic decree on the rebellious wife, the Geonim did not refer to the Palestinian Talmud as their basis. Thus, a distinction should be made between the positive law aspects of the rebellious wife, which were regulated by Geonic enactments (either financial or the timing of coercion), and the contractual aspects, which were left to the spouses’ agreement. The Geonic enactment on the rebellious wife was a piece of independent legislation, not based on the Palestinian divorce clause. In other words, it appears that there is some interaction between the Geonim and the Palestinian divorce clause with regard to financial aspects, but not with regard to the right to unilaterally demand divorce, and not as a support for the enactments. Me’iri’s teachers’ teachers’ explanation of the Geonic decree is – just as I have argued regarding Rosh – a result of dogmatic acceptance of Rabbenu Tam. Since, according to Rabbenu Tam, the Talmud does not mention coercion, we need a different basis for the Geonim, and this suggestion finds its basis in the Palestinian tradition. As Me’iri mentions, his teachers’ teachers were aware of the anachronistic character of their interpretation: And they (i.e. his teachers’ teachers) wrote at the end of their writings that it is better for us to take pains to interpret their teachings (i.e. the teaching of the Geonim) than to say that they explicitly uprooted the whole Talmudic passage without any reason.72

Perhaps Me’iri’s teachers’ teachers were faced with a real situation, which proved the catalyst for their assumption. Mordechai Akiva Friedman assumes73 that Meiri’s teachers’ teachers were not only aware of Rabbi Yoseh’s condition in the Palestinian Talmud, but were also familiar with the real practice in the Land of Israel at their time, i.e. they saw a ‘real’ Palestinian ketubbah which included a similar clause. According to Friedman, the teachers’ teachers are likely to have been Ravyah (R. Eliezer b. Joel Halevi), who examined a ketubbah that was brought from the Land of Israel and contained the divorce stipulation, similar to the divorce clause in the Palestinian Talmud.74 This actual finding ‘could have led him to conclude that there was a direct

72. Me’iri, ibid. Me’iri himself needs this anachronistic support for the financial aspects, as argued above. 73. Friedman, Jewish Marriage, supra n. 1, 327. 74. See Mishpete ha-Ketubbah, 309, 919.

36 0 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s connection between the (Palestinian) clause and the (Babylonian) Geonic enactment.’75 The Palestinian divorce clause is therefore not the basis for the Geonic enactment from a historical point of view. The Geonim did not refer to that tradition, and might even not have been familiar with it. The Talmudic sources provide them with a sufficient normative basis for coercion. As to the Talmud, we might speculatively suggest that the Talmud itself had been influenced by earlier customs of divorce clauses, documented since the fifth century B CE in Elephantine.76 In earlier pre-Talmudic stages there might have been a court stipulation, i.e. a norm originating in the practice of drafting ketubbot. But for the era discussed here – the Geonic era and the time of the Palestinian ketubbot – it is a rule of positive law found in the normative sources of Talmudic literature.

Dogmatic impact of the rejected historical assumptions Annulment As we have shown,77 Rosh links the Geonic rebellious wife to the concept of marriage annulment. While we greatly doubted whether we could consider his view as historically accurate, rather than as an anachronistic justification for an earlier halakhah, his responsum has important implications. Rosh here legitimates annulment in practice at least in ex post cases, and has no doubt that it may be used. This is particularly meaningful in a halakhic environment in which the practical use of annulment has become subject to major dispute, from the Geonim until our own days.78 As we have argued, it is hard to assume that Rosh understood the Geonic rule of the rebellious wife as a judicial act of annulling the marriage without the participation of the husband, namely, as annulment without a get. Rosh here tries to justify coercion of a get, rather than to revive a practice different from that in his own day. Therefore, the implication of Rosh’s writing is that 75. Friedman, ibid. 76. See supra, n. 2. Falk, Gerushin, supra n. 53, 17–20, argues that some of those documents might not have permitted unilateral divorce upon the wife’s demand. A discussion of this argument is beyond the scope of the current paper (see Friedman, Jewish Marriage, supra n. 1, 315 n. 11). 77. See supra, text to note 23. 78. See Westreich, Annulment, supra n. 10, 1–2; ibid., n. 6.

d i v o r c e o n d e m a n d | 361 it legitimates annulment, at least when it is accompanied by a coerced get.79 We cannot, however, prove that he demanded a get as a necessary condition for annulment. Rosh does not discuss the typical cases of annulment, but is concerned only to provide support for the rule of the rebellious wife; in regard to classic hafka‘ah he may well have accepted it even without a get.80 Another implication of defining Rosh’s view as anachronistic relates to the opponents of the Geonic tradition. Dayan (rabbinic judge) Rabbi U. Lavi argued, based on Rosh’s reasoning, that the Rishonim (medieval authorities) who disagreed with the Geonim regarding the rebellious wife (mainly: Rabbenu Tam) rejected annulment as well.81 According to the analysis above, this is a false conclusion. The element of annulment is a later one, added by Rosh, while the dispute between the Geonim and Rabbenu Tam relates to the authority for coercing a divorce, without taking annulment into consideration. Rosh’s second responsum, which we have discussed in relation to the historical aspects of his view,82 supports our current conclusions regarding its dogmatic implications. In this responsum, Rosh does not reject the possibility of annulment. More than that, it seems that Rosh would agree that, in principle, annulment can be applied, when the betrothal was done ‘improperly’ (even when no get is given83). However, for unmentioned reasons (perhaps because the case here discussed is not as radical as kidnapping the betrothed girl from her former ‘husband’ in the case of Naresh,84 or maybe because of a more general hesitation to apply annulment in practice) Rosh was not willing to apply annulment here, but rather preferred coercion.85

Conditions in marriage Me’iri’s teachers’ teachers base the Geonic tradition on the Palestinian custom. As argued above, the actual interaction between the two traditions might be 79. See Westreich, Annulment, supra n. 10, 10–14. 80. The necessity of a get for annulment is part of a wide dispute; see Westreich, ibid. 81. See Uri’el Lavi, ‘Ha’im Nitan Lehafki‘a Kiddushin shel Sarvan Get?’, Tehumin 27 (5767), 308. 82. She’elot u-Teshuvot ha-Rosh, 35:2; See supra, text to note 48. 83. See further Westreich, Annulment, supra n. 10, sections 3(c); 4. 84. See Westreich, Annulment, supra n. 10, 2. 85. We should make a distinction between the possibility (and validity) of retroactive annulment in principle and its practical implementation. While Rosh explicitly avoids the latter, he does not reject the former: cf. Shochetman, Hafka‘at Kiddushin, supra n. 16, 369 n. 54.

36 2 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s limited, from a historical perspective. But the very fact of making such a link has dogmatic significance. For Me’iri’s teachers’ teachers, the Palestinian tradition is sufficient to legitimate the problematic Geonic tradition, probably86 even in relation to what they (following Rabbenu Tam’s view) regarded as non-legitimate coercion. This attitude towards the Palestinian Talmud gives it an enormous dogmatic weight: it can justify customs, norms, etc., even if they lack a normative basis in the Babylonian Talmud. The core question now is what exactly can be supported by the Palestinian precedent. According to the view that no get was required,87 the results are far-reaching: a preliminary agreement between the spouses can be a basis for marriage annulment, and the fact that it was done in the Land of Israel in the past gives it its legitimization. But we had some doubt regarding this view and preferred the alternative explanation, according to which the husband was coerced to grant his wife a get. But here, too, there is an important dogmatic implication: according to the view of Me’iri’s teachers’ teachers, a preliminary agreement can dissolve later problems of get me’use (an illegitimate coerced divorce), when divorce is initiated solely by the wife.88

History and dogmatics The right of the wife unilaterally to demand divorce was practiced in two different traditions: the Babylonian-Geonic tradition and the PalestinianGenizah tradition (including its precedents in the Palestinian Talmud). These traditions developed in a similar environment, but the sources of authority for this right were different in nature and did not influence each other: a positive law source (the halakhah of the rebellious wife) in the Geonic tradition; custom and contractual agreement in the Palestinian tradition. We have rejected the argument that based them both on the same construction (annulment). Nor have we found support for basing one tradition (the Geonic coercion) on the other (the Palestinian divorce clause).

86. At least according to the teachers themselves; see previous section. 87. See supra, text to notes 29–31. 88. We find precedents for this kind of condition, as the monogamy condition, according to which the husband committed himself to divorce his wife if he takes a second wife: see Elimelech Westreich, Temurot be-Ma‘amad ha-’Ishah ba-Mishpat ha-’Ivri (Jerusalem: Magnes, 2002), 26–29. These cases are beyond the scope of the current paper.

d i v o r c e o n d e m a n d | 363 Even so, a fascinating interaction is revealed at a different level. Later in time some writers connected the two traditions. This is done by Me’iri’s teachers’ teachers. Other Rishonim who reject coercion do the same by interpreting the divorce clause as relating to a merely financial matter, similarly to the Geonic enactment (as it was understood by these Rishonim). Perhaps this interaction is compatible also with the reasoning of Rosh, if we extend that reasoning to the Palestinian divorce clause, and interpret both it and the Geonic rebellious wife as based on annulment, as some writers have suggested. Historically, therefore, we still lack decisive conclusions. Dogmatically, however, these sources are authoritative, being part of a continuing process of interpretation. For the classic Rishonim, maybe for our days as well, these early halakhic sources are still alive, even centuries after their actual (somewhat different) use, reflecting the nature of the halakhah as an interpretive legal system.89

89. This may adhere to the ‘account of law as an interpretive concept’; see Julie Dickson, ‘Interpretation and Coherence in Legal Reasoning’, The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, 2005, section 2, http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/legal-reas-interpret/.

j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s   |   v o l .   l x i 1   |   n o .   2   |   a u t u m n 2 011

Reviews

Lee I. Levine and Daniel R. Schwartz (eds), Jewish Identities in Antiquity: Studies in Memory of Menahem Stern (Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 130). Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, 2009. xxv, 442 pp. €119.00. IS B N 978 3 16 150030 5. This excellent book comprises a collection of papers that originate from a conference held in Jerusalem, at the Hebrew University, in memory of Menahem Stern. The papers in this volume approach the issue of Jewish identities in the Hellenistic, Roman, and Byzantine Periods from an impressive number of different perspectives, which is indeed a fitting tribute to Menahem Stern, who displayed a broad range of interests in his scholarly contributions. Following an introduction to the whole volume by Lee I. Levine, Daniel R. Schwartz presents an homage to Menahem Stern, in which he highlights Stern’s devotion to the philological-historical method. Fittingly, methodological issues crop up in a number of the subsequent papers in this collection. The main theme of the volume is set off by the introductory essay of Lee I. Levine, who traces the various sociopolitical circumstances that arose during the Babylonian, Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman Periods, and the effect they had on the shaping of various Jewish identities. Doron Mendels and Oren Tal approach the issue of Jewish identity from the aspect of Hellenization in Palestine; they both conclude that the impact of Hellenism on Jewish society was minimal during the third and second centuries bce. Mendels stresses the fact

that references to Hellenism and to Jewish Hellenizers in 1 and 2 Maccabees are vague and limited. He argues, for example, that references to ‘those who have thrown off the yoke’ and ‘those who have abandoned the covenant’ are not to be necessarily equated with Jewish Hellenizers. Tal arrives at his conclusion through archaeology, arguing that Hellenization among Jews became significant only under the Hasmonaeans, who strove to integrate their state within the wider Hellenistic world. In another paper dedicated to the Hasmonaean Period, David Goodblatt discusses why several Jewish texts – including Hasmonaean propagandistic texts, such as 1 and 2 Maccabees – used the designation ‘Israel’ with reference to Jews, whereas official Hasmonaean documents used the term ‘Judaeans’. Moving beyond the borders of ancient Palestine, Uriel Rappaport tackles the issue of identity in the Jewish Diaspora. Through an analysis of various Jewish texts, Rappaport concludes that the formation of the Hasmonaean state did not lead to sectarian division in the Diaspora – although there was indeed cultural diversity due to the different cultural and socio-political climates of the various lands Jews inhabited – and that ties with Jerusalem remained strong. Rappaport contends that the polytheistic environment within which Diaspora

r e v i e w s | 36 5 Jews lived was an important factor in moulding and maintaining this general shared identity. In her paper, Sylvie Honigman explores the very issue of cultural diversity among Diaspora Jews not by looking at Jewish communities in different lands but by analysing five Jewish communities that settled in different parts of Egypt. Honigman argues that while one can speak of a distinct Jewish identity in Ptolemaic Egypt, this identity took on different shades in these five communities – this is, again, a result of the different cultural and socio-political environments (this time in Egypt itself) that these five communities experienced. In her paper, Honigman underscores the different strategies that these Jewish communities used to promote and preserve their own ‘form’ of Jewish identity. Thus, Honigman invites us to cease using disparate evidence to make generalized statements about the Egyptian Diaspora. Erich S. Gruen highlights an aspect of Jewish identity that did not stress exclusiveness and distinctiveness but one that established fictitious kinship connections with other peoples. Gruen points out that Jewish identity was also shaped by the broader cultural milieu with which they interacted; according to Gruen, this was ‘not a compromise but … an enrichment of their self-esteem’ (p. 116). Joseph Geiger discusses the issues of personal status and identity in the Roman Period, illustrating how individual Jews, like many others throughout the Roman Empire, could have adopted multiple identities. Albert I. Baumgarten discusses Jewish identity within the context of what he refers to as a series of social and political experiments, which the Romans enacted in an attempt to integrate the Jews within the pax Romana.

The next three papers – following an introduction by Isaiah M. Gafni – tackle the theme of Jewish identity within the context of Rabbinic Judaism, focusing on the question of whether (and to what extent) Rabbinic Judaism was normative. Hillel I. Newman approaches this question from a methodological viewpoint; among the points that Newman discusses is the problem of definition concerning many of the terms or notions scholars employ. In their contribution to this question, Ze’ev Safrai and Chana Safrai z”l argue that the fact that rabbinic literature did not conceal those instances in which the rabbis failed to obtain control or exert any influence means that this body of literature is neither wholly biased nor unreliable. They go on to point out that those realms in which the rabbis appear to have had little influence are limited in rabbinic literature; consequently, they conclude that while Jews do not appear to have followed every rabbinic stipulation, rabbinic halakhah generally ‘reflects, and at times also determined, the social norm’ (p. 194). In contrast, David Levine’s paper explores the heterogeneity of Jewish society in the Late Roman Period, questioning the predominance of the rabbis. Levine, for example, argues that similarities between rabbinic sources and extra-rabbinic literary and archaeological sources do not necessarily reflect rabbinic influence on Jewish society; rather, such instances may likewise represent ‘parallel expressions of a common Jewish tradition’ (p. 199). Moshe David Herr and Steven D. Fraade’s papers assess whether Jewish identity underwent continuity or change after the destruction of the Second Temple. Using rabbinic halakhah as a mirror on the daily life of the wider

36 6 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s Jewish populace after 70 ce, Herr concludes that while there were many changes following the First and Second Jewish Revolts, these were not radical enough to significantly alter Jewish identity, especially in view of the many other instances of continuity; this was quite unlike the destruction of the First Temple. Fraade sees continuity in the role that the Temple and its holy vessels played among Jews before and after 70 ce. He argues that these were central markers of Jewish identity both during and after the Second Temple Period, even if they were experienced via different means/media, namely through direct participation (in the case of the Temple – as long as it stood – but not of its vessels, unless one was a priest), through textual reflections on the Temple and its holy vessels, or through visual representations. This volume contains another thematic discussion – introduced by Lee I. Levine – in the form of a three-paper debate, between Uzi Leibner and Jodi Magness, on Jewish settlement in the Eastern Galilee in the Late Roman and Byzantine Periods. This debate owes its origin to Leibner’s recent monograph on settlement in the Eastern Lower Galilee, which concluded that, from the mid-third century ce to the late fourth century ce, Jewish settlement in the Eastern Lower Galilee experienced a gradual decline, a conclusion that goes against the widely-held view that Jewish settlement was stable and prosperous, and that it experienced growth during this period. The final five papers keep the focus on the Late Roman Period, approaching the volume’s theme through various perspectives. Tessa Rajak examines the Jewish translations of the Bible into Greek during the second century ce. She argues that the different

socio-cultural realities of the various Jewish communities – which created different needs vis-à-vis the style of the Greek translation – was an important catalyst for the creation of new Greek translations, such as Aquila’s. Therefore, according to Rajak, these translations were not a response to the Christian adoption of the Septuagint, which the Jews indeed continued to use. Isaiah M. Gafni analyses the issue of Jewish identity in the Babylonian Diaspora, characterizing the relationship between Babylonian and Palestinian Jewry as tense. Gafni traces how Babylonian Jews came to view themselves as Eretz Israel, following the destruction of the Second Temple. Adiel Schremer explores the rabbis’ response to the Christianization of the Roman Empire, emphasizing that while one cannot deny that there is anti-Christian polemic in rabbinic literature, one should not read every reference to Rome within this framework. Schremer goes on to show how some of these references have pagan Rome in mind, and concludes that ‘the need to respond to Christianity was not a major concern of Palestinian rabbis of Late Antiquity’ (p. 364). Zeev Weiss explores further the issue of JewishChristian relations through the medium of synagogue art. Weiss contends that the various synagogue mosaics, such as those at the synagogues of Sepphoris and Bet Alpha, were meant to be read as a single unit, expressing an overarching theme – namely, that Jews were the Chosen People. By adopting motifs from the repertoire of Roman and Christian art, Jews were able to respond to similar Christian claims. Thus, Weiss’s reading of synagogue art highlights those instances where Jews did indeed respond to Christianity. In the last paper, Oded

r e v i e w s | 36 7 Irshai offers a nuanced interpretation of the presumed Jewish waves of violence in the time of Caesar Gallus and the time of Emperor Julian. Irshai argues that neither of these waves was a direct consequence of, or a reaction to, the Christianization of the Roman Empire; in fact, he questions whether there were Jewish acts of violence at all in the time of Julian. Irshai suggests that the source for the waves of violence that did actually take place should be sought in the sociopolitical and religious milieus which Jews inhabited. Ancient Judaism – especially Second Temple Judaism – was characterized by plurality and variety, particularly in the realm of halakhah. The papers in this volume bring to the fore this heterogeneity with reference to Jewish identity (or better, identities), presenting

the multifaceted, variable, and shifting nature of Jewish identity/ies in antiquity on both a synchronic and diachronic level. This truly is a most commendable volume, comprising a series of excellent papers on diverse topics and with a variety of approaches, some of which raise important and challenging questions. Certainly, nobody will agree with every view presented in the various papers – after all, some papers reach contrasting conclusions. But the presence of these eclectic views is precisely one of the volume’s many strengths: they present a nuanced picture of the state of the question of certain contested issues. Needless to say more: this book is highly recommended – the papers in it offer a most important contribution to the study of ancient Judaism. Dennis Mizzi University of Malta

Craig A. Evans and H. Daniel Zacharias (eds), Jewish and Christian Scripture as Artifact and Canon. T & T Clark, London, 2009. xiv, 322 pp. £80.00. IS B N 978 0 567 58485 4. In this stimulating collection of essays scholars of varied disciplines investigate the material features of the Jewish and Christian Scriptures, addressing issues relating to papyri, canon, manuscript production, rituals that evolved around handling the Scriptures as objects, and even modern uses of Scripture in talismanic ways. In recent years, more attention has been given to the study of scribal practices and of literacy. Emanuel Tov’s Scribal Practices and Approaches Reflected in the Texts Found in the Judean Desert (2004) is only one example of the former, and Catherine Hezser’s Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine (2001) is one of the latter. Thus, since scholarly interest

in the books and the book culture of antiquity has been on the rise, the present volume will find a receptive audience. The book progresses from the ancient to the modern, beginning with Armin Lange’s ‘Oracle Collection and Canon: A Comparison between Judah and Greece in Persian Times’. Lange compares the oracle collections of ancient Greece to the prophetic books of the Hebrew Bible on the basis of similarities between both cultures: the oracles and prophecies were both popular and both had religious authority. Almost half of the article is given to the collection and analysis of classical Greek oracles – a welcome emphasis, since most biblical scholars

r e v i e w s | 36 7 Irshai offers a nuanced interpretation of the presumed Jewish waves of violence in the time of Caesar Gallus and the time of Emperor Julian. Irshai argues that neither of these waves was a direct consequence of, or a reaction to, the Christianization of the Roman Empire; in fact, he questions whether there were Jewish acts of violence at all in the time of Julian. Irshai suggests that the source for the waves of violence that did actually take place should be sought in the sociopolitical and religious milieus which Jews inhabited. Ancient Judaism – especially Second Temple Judaism – was characterized by plurality and variety, particularly in the realm of halakhah. The papers in this volume bring to the fore this heterogeneity with reference to Jewish identity (or better, identities), presenting

the multifaceted, variable, and shifting nature of Jewish identity/ies in antiquity on both a synchronic and diachronic level. This truly is a most commendable volume, comprising a series of excellent papers on diverse topics and with a variety of approaches, some of which raise important and challenging questions. Certainly, nobody will agree with every view presented in the various papers – after all, some papers reach contrasting conclusions. But the presence of these eclectic views is precisely one of the volume’s many strengths: they present a nuanced picture of the state of the question of certain contested issues. Needless to say more: this book is highly recommended – the papers in it offer a most important contribution to the study of ancient Judaism. Dennis Mizzi University of Malta

Craig A. Evans and H. Daniel Zacharias (eds), Jewish and Christian Scripture as Artifact and Canon. T & T Clark, London, 2009. xiv, 322 pp. £80.00. IS B N 978 0 567 58485 4. In this stimulating collection of essays scholars of varied disciplines investigate the material features of the Jewish and Christian Scriptures, addressing issues relating to papyri, canon, manuscript production, rituals that evolved around handling the Scriptures as objects, and even modern uses of Scripture in talismanic ways. In recent years, more attention has been given to the study of scribal practices and of literacy. Emanuel Tov’s Scribal Practices and Approaches Reflected in the Texts Found in the Judean Desert (2004) is only one example of the former, and Catherine Hezser’s Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine (2001) is one of the latter. Thus, since scholarly interest

in the books and the book culture of antiquity has been on the rise, the present volume will find a receptive audience. The book progresses from the ancient to the modern, beginning with Armin Lange’s ‘Oracle Collection and Canon: A Comparison between Judah and Greece in Persian Times’. Lange compares the oracle collections of ancient Greece to the prophetic books of the Hebrew Bible on the basis of similarities between both cultures: the oracles and prophecies were both popular and both had religious authority. Almost half of the article is given to the collection and analysis of classical Greek oracles – a welcome emphasis, since most biblical scholars

36 8 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s will never have read anything from Pherecydes of Athens. The similarities are conspicuous. Both Greek oracles and Israelite literary prophecy reached a peak of popularity at the same time (fifth to fourth centuries bce), and both achieved this prominence after major crises (the Babylonian exile in the beginning of the sixth century and the Greek wars of the fifth century). The main point, however, is that both collections remained relevant because they were continuously reapplied and reinterpreted in new historical contexts. When the new situation had parallels with the contexts of the original oracle or prophecy, the new situation confirmed the truth of that oracle or prophecy, enhancing its authoritative status. In ‘Artifactual and Hermeneutical Use of Scripture in Jewish Tradition’, Marianne Schleicher applies methodologies from her field of Comparative Religion in order to understand how scripture ‘works’ in society. The ‘artifactual’ use pertains to spelling practices, binding, storage, and other ways in which the ‘handling’ of the text reveals how its possessors valued Scripture, while the hermeneutical use is, well, hermeneutical. In the latter section, she evaluates the medieval poetry of Shlomo ibn Gabirol using the psychoanalytic approach to poetic language formulated by Kristeva (who is, however, Bulgarian, not Hungarian, cf. p. 61). Schleicher offers a perspective with which most scholars in the fields of biblical, theological, or Jewish studies, including this reviewer, will be unfamiliar. While her conclusions are not stunning, her way of arriving at them is interesting. Larry W. Hurtado’s ‘Early Christian Manuscripts as Artifacts’ offers a concise summary of his book

The Earliest Christian Artifacts: Manuscripts and Christian Origins (Eerdmans, Grand Rapids, 2006), which he acknowledges, and it is hoped that exposure to this article will interest readers enough to take up the more lengthy work. Though the title, and indeed most of the comments, appear to have little to do with Jewish studies, Hurtado’s discussion of the roll and the codex is indeed very salient for the study of the transmission of the Septuagint. (Unfortunately, we cannot read the end of Hurtado’s conclusion, as it abruptly breaks off mid-sentence – an error that seems to have escaped the proof-reader’s otherwise careful eye.) Stephen Reed examines the use of tefillin, mezuzot, and other excerpted Torah texts, showing they were not necessarily employed for actual study, but seen as symbolic statements of loyalty to the Torah. This is indeed one of the clearest examples of ‘Scripture as artifact’ in the entire collection. John Flanagan investigates a very – though probably not, pace Flanagan, ‘the most’ – important problem in the text history of Ezekiel. In ‘Papyrus 967 and the Text of Ezekiel: Parablepsis or an Original Text?’, Flanagan offers a review of scholarship on the use of the papyrus in the textual criticism of Ezekiel rather than a new approach to the problem (it may be noted that it is M.V. Spottorno, not Sporttorno, and that she is not a he), focusing primarily on the disagreement between Daniel I. Block and Johan Lust. The latter believes the Greek papyrus points to an older text form than that of the MT, while the former is not persuaded. Although I am in agreement with Flanagan that at this time the evidence is too sparse to rule in favour of the antiquity of Papyrus 967 vis-à-vis MT, it would certainly not be

r e v i e w s | 36 9 ‘unprecedented in the science of textual criticism’ to adopt a reading which has but a few extant witnesses. For Flanagan the ‘evidence is simply not there’ (p. 116), by which he means the number of witnesses, but neither is it in thousands of other cases in the volumes of the Göttingen LXX and in the editions of classical Greek texts where the editors have decided, on other grounds, that the most original reading has been lost and must be reconstructed. Thus, one of the most useful conclusions to be drawn from Flanagan is one that he presumably did not intend. He has highlighted the pressing need for an exposition of a methodology for untangling the textual problems of books such as Ezekiel, Jeremiah, and Samuel-Kings, especially concerning the use of the LXX. These books are plagued with problems that may only be resolved by judiciously combining textual and literary criticism. The critic must not approach Ezekiel

in the same way he approaches the Pentateuch. Other contributions on the use of certain Psalms fragments, Gospel manuscripts, New Testament papyri, Pauline materials, the textual tradition of the Apocalypse, and even Manichean and religious propaganda in the Roman Empire lead us to the final three contributions on modern issues. These last three chapters focus on a Danish hymnbook, the Promise Box, and the Bible as an icon. The indices are very useful, and one is able to get the sense of just how many different manuscripts were discussed throughout the volume. The contributions are very diverse, ranging from the ancient to the modern world, and the editors are to be commended for creating what is, for the most part, a coherent collection. It is certain that many readers will find more than a few chapters of interest. T. M. Law Oriental Institute, Oxford

Johann Cook (ed.), Septuagint and Reception: Essays Prepared for the Association for the Study of the Septuagint in South Africa. Brill, Leiden, 2009. xiv, 414 pp. €143.00. IS B N  978 90 04 17725 3. The volume presents a combination of contributions offered at the first conference of the Association for the Study of the Septuagint in South Africa (ASSSA) and invited papers. The book opens with a good article by Jan Joosten on the prayer of Azariah, found in the Greek version of Daniel but not in the Hebrew book of Daniel. Joosten challenges the majority view that the text was originally a Hebrew prayer, created between 167–164, during the reign and referring to the person

of Antiochus IV Epiphanes. Joosten’s main argument is that the author of this prayer reuses Biblical phrases and expressions. Especially revealing is the correspondence between the prayer and LXX Ps. 50 (51):19 and LXX Mic. 6:6–7, as it clearly indicates that the author who composed the prayer did so in Greek and after the translations of these books were made available, which must have been later than the Maccabean period. Joosten points to an Egyptian origin of the text (revealing that he still puts the origin of

r e v i e w s | 36 7 Irshai offers a nuanced interpretation of the presumed Jewish waves of violence in the time of Caesar Gallus and the time of Emperor Julian. Irshai argues that neither of these waves was a direct consequence of, or a reaction to, the Christianization of the Roman Empire; in fact, he questions whether there were Jewish acts of violence at all in the time of Julian. Irshai suggests that the source for the waves of violence that did actually take place should be sought in the sociopolitical and religious milieus which Jews inhabited. Ancient Judaism – especially Second Temple Judaism – was characterized by plurality and variety, particularly in the realm of halakhah. The papers in this volume bring to the fore this heterogeneity with reference to Jewish identity (or better, identities), presenting

the multifaceted, variable, and shifting nature of Jewish identity/ies in antiquity on both a synchronic and diachronic level. This truly is a most commendable volume, comprising a series of excellent papers on diverse topics and with a variety of approaches, some of which raise important and challenging questions. Certainly, nobody will agree with every view presented in the various papers – after all, some papers reach contrasting conclusions. But the presence of these eclectic views is precisely one of the volume’s many strengths: they present a nuanced picture of the state of the question of certain contested issues. Needless to say more: this book is highly recommended – the papers in it offer a most important contribution to the study of ancient Judaism. Dennis Mizzi University of Malta

Craig A. Evans and H. Daniel Zacharias (eds), Jewish and Christian Scripture as Artifact and Canon. T & T Clark, London, 2009. xiv, 322 pp. £80.00. IS B N 978 0 567 58485 4. In this stimulating collection of essays scholars of varied disciplines investigate the material features of the Jewish and Christian Scriptures, addressing issues relating to papyri, canon, manuscript production, rituals that evolved around handling the Scriptures as objects, and even modern uses of Scripture in talismanic ways. In recent years, more attention has been given to the study of scribal practices and of literacy. Emanuel Tov’s Scribal Practices and Approaches Reflected in the Texts Found in the Judean Desert (2004) is only one example of the former, and Catherine Hezser’s Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine (2001) is one of the latter. Thus, since scholarly interest

in the books and the book culture of antiquity has been on the rise, the present volume will find a receptive audience. The book progresses from the ancient to the modern, beginning with Armin Lange’s ‘Oracle Collection and Canon: A Comparison between Judah and Greece in Persian Times’. Lange compares the oracle collections of ancient Greece to the prophetic books of the Hebrew Bible on the basis of similarities between both cultures: the oracles and prophecies were both popular and both had religious authority. Almost half of the article is given to the collection and analysis of classical Greek oracles – a welcome emphasis, since most biblical scholars

36 8 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s will never have read anything from Pherecydes of Athens. The similarities are conspicuous. Both Greek oracles and Israelite literary prophecy reached a peak of popularity at the same time (fifth to fourth centuries bce), and both achieved this prominence after major crises (the Babylonian exile in the beginning of the sixth century and the Greek wars of the fifth century). The main point, however, is that both collections remained relevant because they were continuously reapplied and reinterpreted in new historical contexts. When the new situation had parallels with the contexts of the original oracle or prophecy, the new situation confirmed the truth of that oracle or prophecy, enhancing its authoritative status. In ‘Artifactual and Hermeneutical Use of Scripture in Jewish Tradition’, Marianne Schleicher applies methodologies from her field of Comparative Religion in order to understand how scripture ‘works’ in society. The ‘artifactual’ use pertains to spelling practices, binding, storage, and other ways in which the ‘handling’ of the text reveals how its possessors valued Scripture, while the hermeneutical use is, well, hermeneutical. In the latter section, she evaluates the medieval poetry of Shlomo ibn Gabirol using the psychoanalytic approach to poetic language formulated by Kristeva (who is, however, Bulgarian, not Hungarian, cf. p. 61). Schleicher offers a perspective with which most scholars in the fields of biblical, theological, or Jewish studies, including this reviewer, will be unfamiliar. While her conclusions are not stunning, her way of arriving at them is interesting. Larry W. Hurtado’s ‘Early Christian Manuscripts as Artifacts’ offers a concise summary of his book

The Earliest Christian Artifacts: Manuscripts and Christian Origins (Eerdmans, Grand Rapids, 2006), which he acknowledges, and it is hoped that exposure to this article will interest readers enough to take up the more lengthy work. Though the title, and indeed most of the comments, appear to have little to do with Jewish studies, Hurtado’s discussion of the roll and the codex is indeed very salient for the study of the transmission of the Septuagint. (Unfortunately, we cannot read the end of Hurtado’s conclusion, as it abruptly breaks off mid-sentence – an error that seems to have escaped the proof-reader’s otherwise careful eye.) Stephen Reed examines the use of tefillin, mezuzot, and other excerpted Torah texts, showing they were not necessarily employed for actual study, but seen as symbolic statements of loyalty to the Torah. This is indeed one of the clearest examples of ‘Scripture as artifact’ in the entire collection. John Flanagan investigates a very – though probably not, pace Flanagan, ‘the most’ – important problem in the text history of Ezekiel. In ‘Papyrus 967 and the Text of Ezekiel: Parablepsis or an Original Text?’, Flanagan offers a review of scholarship on the use of the papyrus in the textual criticism of Ezekiel rather than a new approach to the problem (it may be noted that it is M.V. Spottorno, not Sporttorno, and that she is not a he), focusing primarily on the disagreement between Daniel I. Block and Johan Lust. The latter believes the Greek papyrus points to an older text form than that of the MT, while the former is not persuaded. Although I am in agreement with Flanagan that at this time the evidence is too sparse to rule in favour of the antiquity of Papyrus 967 vis-à-vis MT, it would certainly not be

r e v i e w s | 36 9 ‘unprecedented in the science of textual criticism’ to adopt a reading which has but a few extant witnesses. For Flanagan the ‘evidence is simply not there’ (p. 116), by which he means the number of witnesses, but neither is it in thousands of other cases in the volumes of the Göttingen LXX and in the editions of classical Greek texts where the editors have decided, on other grounds, that the most original reading has been lost and must be reconstructed. Thus, one of the most useful conclusions to be drawn from Flanagan is one that he presumably did not intend. He has highlighted the pressing need for an exposition of a methodology for untangling the textual problems of books such as Ezekiel, Jeremiah, and Samuel-Kings, especially concerning the use of the LXX. These books are plagued with problems that may only be resolved by judiciously combining textual and literary criticism. The critic must not approach Ezekiel

in the same way he approaches the Pentateuch. Other contributions on the use of certain Psalms fragments, Gospel manuscripts, New Testament papyri, Pauline materials, the textual tradition of the Apocalypse, and even Manichean and religious propaganda in the Roman Empire lead us to the final three contributions on modern issues. These last three chapters focus on a Danish hymnbook, the Promise Box, and the Bible as an icon. The indices are very useful, and one is able to get the sense of just how many different manuscripts were discussed throughout the volume. The contributions are very diverse, ranging from the ancient to the modern world, and the editors are to be commended for creating what is, for the most part, a coherent collection. It is certain that many readers will find more than a few chapters of interest. T. M. Law Oriental Institute, Oxford

Johann Cook (ed.), Septuagint and Reception: Essays Prepared for the Association for the Study of the Septuagint in South Africa. Brill, Leiden, 2009. xiv, 414 pp. €143.00. IS B N  978 90 04 17725 3. The volume presents a combination of contributions offered at the first conference of the Association for the Study of the Septuagint in South Africa (ASSSA) and invited papers. The book opens with a good article by Jan Joosten on the prayer of Azariah, found in the Greek version of Daniel but not in the Hebrew book of Daniel. Joosten challenges the majority view that the text was originally a Hebrew prayer, created between 167–164, during the reign and referring to the person

of Antiochus IV Epiphanes. Joosten’s main argument is that the author of this prayer reuses Biblical phrases and expressions. Especially revealing is the correspondence between the prayer and LXX Ps. 50 (51):19 and LXX Mic. 6:6–7, as it clearly indicates that the author who composed the prayer did so in Greek and after the translations of these books were made available, which must have been later than the Maccabean period. Joosten points to an Egyptian origin of the text (revealing that he still puts the origin of

r e v i e w s | 36 9 ‘unprecedented in the science of textual criticism’ to adopt a reading which has but a few extant witnesses. For Flanagan the ‘evidence is simply not there’ (p. 116), by which he means the number of witnesses, but neither is it in thousands of other cases in the volumes of the Göttingen LXX and in the editions of classical Greek texts where the editors have decided, on other grounds, that the most original reading has been lost and must be reconstructed. Thus, one of the most useful conclusions to be drawn from Flanagan is one that he presumably did not intend. He has highlighted the pressing need for an exposition of a methodology for untangling the textual problems of books such as Ezekiel, Jeremiah, and Samuel-Kings, especially concerning the use of the LXX. These books are plagued with problems that may only be resolved by judiciously combining textual and literary criticism. The critic must not approach Ezekiel

in the same way he approaches the Pentateuch. Other contributions on the use of certain Psalms fragments, Gospel manuscripts, New Testament papyri, Pauline materials, the textual tradition of the Apocalypse, and even Manichean and religious propaganda in the Roman Empire lead us to the final three contributions on modern issues. These last three chapters focus on a Danish hymnbook, the Promise Box, and the Bible as an icon. The indices are very useful, and one is able to get the sense of just how many different manuscripts were discussed throughout the volume. The contributions are very diverse, ranging from the ancient to the modern world, and the editors are to be commended for creating what is, for the most part, a coherent collection. It is certain that many readers will find more than a few chapters of interest. T. M. Law Oriental Institute, Oxford

Johann Cook (ed.), Septuagint and Reception: Essays Prepared for the Association for the Study of the Septuagint in South Africa. Brill, Leiden, 2009. xiv, 414 pp. €143.00. IS B N  978 90 04 17725 3. The volume presents a combination of contributions offered at the first conference of the Association for the Study of the Septuagint in South Africa (ASSSA) and invited papers. The book opens with a good article by Jan Joosten on the prayer of Azariah, found in the Greek version of Daniel but not in the Hebrew book of Daniel. Joosten challenges the majority view that the text was originally a Hebrew prayer, created between 167–164, during the reign and referring to the person

of Antiochus IV Epiphanes. Joosten’s main argument is that the author of this prayer reuses Biblical phrases and expressions. Especially revealing is the correspondence between the prayer and LXX Ps. 50 (51):19 and LXX Mic. 6:6–7, as it clearly indicates that the author who composed the prayer did so in Greek and after the translations of these books were made available, which must have been later than the Maccabean period. Joosten points to an Egyptian origin of the text (revealing that he still puts the origin of

37 0 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s the LXX in Egypt). He also suggests that the prayer was created to fit in the text of Daniel – hence it was not an independent text that was translated later and added to the book of Daniel. Either the translator of the book or a later redactor must be credited with the Prayer of Azariah. Another article worth reading comes from Johann Cook, who reflects on the influence of external traditions in the project of making the meaning of the translated text clearer. Cook finely navigates between the Greek world and the Jewish world. He takes on the difference between the sixth and the seventh day of creation, where Jewish exegesis seems to be at work, then provides numerous examples from the book of Proverbs, where, again, a Jewish pre-rabbinic perspective can be observed, even in some cases where prima facie Greek influence might seem probable (Prov. 15:15 and chapters 6 and 9). He also offers an example in the LXX of Job where the Hebrew text might have led the translator to a Homeric interpretation (Job 42:14) and two examples from prophetic material, where again Cook seems skeptical about Greek influence. As a person who has edited Greek papyri, I was very happy with the contribution, albeit a bit short, of Peter Arzt-Grabner on a Vienna Papyrus (P.Vindob. G 39205) containing a couple of verses from Ps 43 and 44. Randall X. Gauthier makes up for the shortness of the above-mentioned article and offers a very careful view on the pluses in the Greek Psalter, taking on the grammatical and syntactical additions, such as verbs, nouns, adjectives, pronouns, participles, prepositions, conjunctions, and articles, the intertextual additions, such as the intra-psalm additions, inter-psalm additions, extra-psalm additions,

idiomatic additions and others. After a brief round of dealing with the minuses, Gauthier reaches the conclusion that most of the pluses are not due to a different Hebrew Vorlage. Instead, the LXX Psalter ‘borrows’ quite a lot of material from the Psalter and beyond. The first part of the book concludes with a critique of the so-called literal character of LXX Lamentations by Gideon Kotzé. The article investigates the semantic level (how are words translated?) and the word order. The latter investigation reveals that although the word order of the Hebrew text is often replicated in the Greek translation, leading some scholars to conclude that the LXX was a literal translation, the Greek text has its way of convening an additional meaning and is, in this sense, not literal. The second part of this volume forms actually a book in itself. It contains several articles on the use of the Septuagint in the New Testament. Wolfgang Kraus bites of the head and investigates how Hab. 2:3–4 has been used in the New Testament. He starts with a thorough investigation of the text in the Hebrew tradition, that is MT and all Dead Sea Scrolls containing the text (1Q pHab, Mur 88 and 4QXIIg). He then turns to the Greek tradition, studying both the LXX and the 8ḤevXIIgr text, and shows that the LXX does not offer a messianic interpretation of the Hebrew text, but rather a more eschatological reading. Finally, he takes on the text in the New Testament, discussing its appearance in Hebrews 10, where he points to a christological interpretation of verse 3 and an ecclesiological interpretation of verse 4, and in Gal. 3:11 and Rom. 1:17, where it seems that Paul did not depart from the meaning of the

r e v i e w s | 37 1 Greek text of Habakuk, ‘but gave the text a certain culmination and honed its argument in a specific way’ (p. 117). An excellent contribution of Gert J. Steyn, ‘Quotations from the Minor Prophets in Hebrews’, intends to answer the question whether the Vorlage which was used by Hebrews had already the combination of Scripture (Torah) texts with hymnic texts as they are now quoted in Hebrews or whether the author of Hebrews is to be credited with this very special conflation of material. Steyn then in fine detail works on the case of Hab. 2:3b-4 (and Isa. 26:20) in Heb. 10:37–38 and Hag. 2:6 in Heb. 12:26. In both cases, he concludes that it is the author of Hebrews that conflated the material. Annette Evans addresses Egyptian elements in Hebrews 1 and argues that ‘a precursor to the divine sonship of Jesus can be seen in a concept that was already present in the institution of ancient Egyptian divine kingship’ (p. 143). Evans then analyses three striking allusions from the Greek version of the Hebrew Bible that hint at a possible ancient Egyptian ‘apperceptive mass’. Evans uses Corsini to define the term apperceptive: ‘a group of present ideas, influential in determining what new ideas shall gain admission to consciousness and in what way new objects shall be perceived’ (p. 143, n. 14). In a sense, the article builds on the premise that the Psalter was indeed translated in Egypt and that the author of Hebrews must have been a connoisseur of ancient Egyptian mythology. Ronald H. van der Bergh dives into the differences between the MT and the LXX of Isa 45:18–25 and asks how the contexts of these texts have influenced their use in the New Testament. With unusual elements of humour he first analyses the MT text, then the LXX,

offering some nice observations, for instance, that LXX only has ‘one’ expression indicating God, whereas MT has three (p. 173). This section could have benefited from some more translation technique studies. The author then moves to a very short – indeed ‘cursory’ (p. 174) – section on the New Testament, where, for instance, he builds on the ‘one’ expression of God as found in the LXX and demonstrates that Mark 12:28–34, esp. 18–19, makes use of it. In a second section of the Reception part, one can find the following articles that take the LXX from Josephus to Augustine and beyond: an article by Lawrence Ronald Lincoln, demonstrating that Josephus indeed used the LXX for books 1–5 of his Antiquities, starting with a review of the books and articles that have already dealt with this topic (forgetting, however, the work of Christopher Begg); a beautiful comparative article by Johan C. Thom on the theme, concept and role of wisdom in the Wisdom of Solomon and Cleanthes’ Hymn to Zeus; an article by William Loader comparing the Strange Woman in Proverbs (MT and LXX) with Aseneth – and thus enlightening the afterlife of the strange woman. The section also contains an article by Chris L. de Wet on the reception of the Susanna Narrative in Early Christianity, starting with the Theodotionic version of the text, covering a lot of early Christian writers and ending with a section on Christian iconography. It further presents an article by Annemarie Kotzé taking the reader on a tour of how Augustine and Jerome used the Septuagint – I especially liked the fact that the author studied the sources instead of quoting secondary material. A third part of the book is appropriately called Miscellanea. In this

37 2 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s part, the article of Harry F. van Rooij comparing hapax legomena in MT, LXX and Peshitta Ezechiel is worth noting. Van Rooij concludes that the Peshitta did not consult the LXX when dealing with the translation of hapax legomena and went its own way. A series of further articles cover very diverse but still LXX related topics, such as the metatexts that are often accompanying translations (by Jacobus A. Naudé), an article on Kingship ideology as found in the Letter of Aristeas (by Jonathan More), an excellent reflection on the background of Eunouchos as used in the LXX (by Sakkie

Cornelius), showing that the idea of castration most likely should be cut out from the concept, an article on reading Judith as therapeutic narrative (by Pierre Johan Jordaan), a great article (by Eugene Coetzer) on how to apply the ‘speech act theory’ of John L. Austin to the text of Susanna, and finally an article by Dichk M. Kanonge investigating the efficiency of the simplified Greimassian method as constructed by Nicole EveraertDesmedt for ‘Reading Narratives in the Septuagint’. A bibliography may have been useful. Multiple indices conclude the volume. Kristin De Troyer University of St Andrews

Timothy H. Lim and John J. Collins (eds), The Oxford Handbook of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2010. xx, 785 pp. £85.00. IS B N 978 0 19 920723 7. This Oxford ‘Handbook’, a true handful of a book with its 800 pages, is the characteristic example of a new genre that has started to proliferate. I am referring to multi-authored introductions to important and controversial topics, written largely by recognized authorities and advancing with occasional exceptions opinions generally agreeable to the majority of readers. To facilitate the further study of the Dead Sea Scrolls, each contribution is accompanied by a selection of suggested readings and a detailed list of bibliography. The volume is the work of second and third generation Qumran scholars under the dual editorship of a British and an American specialist, Timothy Lim of Edinburgh and John Collins of Yale. The contributors’ register comprises 28 further names. The bulk is AngloAmerican (nine from the UK and ten from the USA). Israel is underrepresented

by three, and as far as the rest of the world is concerned, Austria, Finland, France, Germany, the Netherlands and Switzerland, each has a single flag bearer. Another noteworthy phenomenon concerns the authorities cited in the volume. In a similar work published, say, thirty years ago, Józef Tadeusz Milik and Roland de Vaux would have been the most frequently quoted authorities. They have not disappeared yet, but stand no longer in the front row. Other erstwhile grandees like Eleazar L. Sukenik, Millar Burrows, André Dupont-Sommer, and even H.H. Rowley and Yigael Yadin, are hardly remembered. They all made their substantial mark on Qumran studies in their time, but as their innovations bit by bit became common opinion, they have progressively faded away from the consciousness of the younger generations. Sic transit gloria mundi. The first of the eight sections of

37 2 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s part, the article of Harry F. van Rooij comparing hapax legomena in MT, LXX and Peshitta Ezechiel is worth noting. Van Rooij concludes that the Peshitta did not consult the LXX when dealing with the translation of hapax legomena and went its own way. A series of further articles cover very diverse but still LXX related topics, such as the metatexts that are often accompanying translations (by Jacobus A. Naudé), an article on Kingship ideology as found in the Letter of Aristeas (by Jonathan More), an excellent reflection on the background of Eunouchos as used in the LXX (by Sakkie

Cornelius), showing that the idea of castration most likely should be cut out from the concept, an article on reading Judith as therapeutic narrative (by Pierre Johan Jordaan), a great article (by Eugene Coetzer) on how to apply the ‘speech act theory’ of John L. Austin to the text of Susanna, and finally an article by Dichk M. Kanonge investigating the efficiency of the simplified Greimassian method as constructed by Nicole EveraertDesmedt for ‘Reading Narratives in the Septuagint’. A bibliography may have been useful. Multiple indices conclude the volume. Kristin De Troyer University of St Andrews

Timothy H. Lim and John J. Collins (eds), The Oxford Handbook of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2010. xx, 785 pp. £85.00. IS B N 978 0 19 920723 7. This Oxford ‘Handbook’, a true handful of a book with its 800 pages, is the characteristic example of a new genre that has started to proliferate. I am referring to multi-authored introductions to important and controversial topics, written largely by recognized authorities and advancing with occasional exceptions opinions generally agreeable to the majority of readers. To facilitate the further study of the Dead Sea Scrolls, each contribution is accompanied by a selection of suggested readings and a detailed list of bibliography. The volume is the work of second and third generation Qumran scholars under the dual editorship of a British and an American specialist, Timothy Lim of Edinburgh and John Collins of Yale. The contributors’ register comprises 28 further names. The bulk is AngloAmerican (nine from the UK and ten from the USA). Israel is underrepresented

by three, and as far as the rest of the world is concerned, Austria, Finland, France, Germany, the Netherlands and Switzerland, each has a single flag bearer. Another noteworthy phenomenon concerns the authorities cited in the volume. In a similar work published, say, thirty years ago, Józef Tadeusz Milik and Roland de Vaux would have been the most frequently quoted authorities. They have not disappeared yet, but stand no longer in the front row. Other erstwhile grandees like Eleazar L. Sukenik, Millar Burrows, André Dupont-Sommer, and even H.H. Rowley and Yigael Yadin, are hardly remembered. They all made their substantial mark on Qumran studies in their time, but as their innovations bit by bit became common opinion, they have progressively faded away from the consciousness of the younger generations. Sic transit gloria mundi. The first of the eight sections of

r e v i e w s | 37 3 the Handbook deals with archaeology and covers both the site of Qumran (Eric Meyers) and the cemetery (Rachel Hachlili). Both authors subject to critical analysis the numerous recent theories. Meyers seems to embrace Jodi Magness’s view, emending de Vaux’s earlier thesis, and proposes that the surviving remains of the Qumran settlement must be dated after 100 bce. He notes, however, that Magness leaves the door slightly ajar for a pre-100 bce occupation of the site. I myself believe that the massive building activity that took place at the beginning of the first century bce must have been preceded by a more modest occupation during which the founding fathers of the community sheltered in tents, huts or the neighbouring caves, an occupation that may have stretched back to the 120s or 130s bce, but left little or nothing for modern archaeologists to examine. In sum, both Meyers and Hachlili conclude that the evidence as a whole is compatible, to say the least, with the theory of a sectarian-Essene occupation of the Qumran area. In sections 2 and 3 the impact of the scrolls on the study of Jewish history and sectarianism is investigated. Some of the authors (John Collins, Joan Taylor and James VanderKam) largely confirm mainstream opinion regarding the nature of the settlement, others (Martin Goodman, Michael Wise and Sacha Stern) propound revolutionary theses. Goodman questions the dereliction of the Jerusalem Temple by the priestly founders of the community; Wise dates the Teacher of Righteousness not to the second half of the second century bce, but to the period following the reign of Alexander Jannaeus who died in 76 bce. Finally, Stern thinks that the sectarians followed not a solar, but a lunar calendar

and any dispute based on different time reckoning is without foundation. As the editors tactfully put it, it is to be seen whether these revisionist ideas will succeed in shaking long-established assumptions of scholarship. Section 4 is devoted to the text, languages and interpretation of the Bible in the scrolls (Ronald Hendel, Timothy Lim, Molly Zahn, Bilhah Nitzan and Jan Joosten). While voicing mainstream opinions, the contributors also advance some important controversial views. For instance, Molly Zahn dedicates a whole chapter to the problem of the ‘Rewritten Bible’, a concept that I launched in Scripture and Tradition in Judaism fifty years ago, but questions, as some other scholars have done before her, the appropriateness of the use of the term ‘Bible’ in the Second Temple period. She restricts (wrongly in my view) the notion of ‘Rewritten Scripture’ (not ‘Bible’!), to the Dead Sea Scrolls. I would argue that, although the text of sacred books may still have been somewhat fluid in the late Second Temple era, Jews of that age already possessed a canon of the Bible. The debate merely concerned the question whether the Song of Songs and Ecclesiastes should remain in the canon and it was decided that they should. Josephus’s assertion that only 22 books, no more, no less, were authoritative in Jewish circles, is highly significant, and he lists the five books of Moses, 13 books of the prophets and four books of hymns and wisdom, that is to say the traditional number of the biblical books among Jews. Section 5 surveys religious themes: purity (Jonathan Klowans), apocalypticism and Messianism (Michael Knibb), mysticism (James Davila), wisdom literature (Armin Lange), Iranian connections (Albert de Jong)

374 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s and penitential movements (David Lambert). Section 6 turns to the scrolls and early Christianity, discussing the relationship between the Essene scrolls and the New Testament (Jörg Frey) and the background of Christology (Larry Hurtado). The latter oddly perceives in certain Qumran apocalyptic characters the prototypes of the early Christian ‘binitarian’ Jesus devotion. The section ends with a useful survey of shared exegetical traditions between Qumran and the New Testament (George Brooke). In section 7 the relation between the scrolls and later Judaism is investigated. The themes include Essene and rabbinic halakhah (Aharon Shemesh); Qumran and Jewish liturgy (Daniel Falk) and the links that connect the scrolls with the Cairo Genizah and the Karaites (Stefan Reif). Section 8 is the spice of definite novelty in the Handbook. The scrolls are subjected to rhetorical criticism by Carol Newsom; Postmodernism in Roland Barthes’s style is practiced on the Teacher

of Righteousness by Maxine Grossman; and Hector Macqueen uses the lawsuit between Elisha Qimron and Hershel Shanks to clarify the law relating to the copyright of a reconstructed ancient text. The editors conclude by expressing their hope ‘that the essays brought together here are sufficient to show that little, if anything is definitively settled in the study of the Dead Sea Scrolls, and that they are likely to remain a source of vibrant debate for generations to come’ (p. 16). This is indeed one way of reading this book. Nevertheless, an old Qumran hand like this reviewer, who has lived with the scrolls for the last 63 years, closes The Oxford Handbook of the Dead Sea Scrolls with the impression that whatever the young lions of today pretend, the main lines of research have been successfully completed during the first 50 years of Qumran research and what remains to achieve is in-depth-study and an effort to integrate the scrolls into the main body of ancient Jewish literature, history, religion and culture. Geza Vermes Wolfson College, Oxford

Larry W. Hurtado and Paul L. Owen (eds), ‘Who is This Son of Man?’ The Latest Scholarship on a Puzzling Expression of the Historical Jesus. T & T Clark, London, 2011. 191 pp. £70.00. IS B N 978 0 567 52119 4. With the subtitle’s declaration that ‘son of man’ is an expression originating with the historical Jesus, the suggestion that it was a Christological title created by the early community is excluded from the beginning. It then remains the authors’ task to explore what it possibly meant in the mouth of Jesus, and if the use in the gospels corresponds to this or has developed its content. Already on the first page of the first of eight

contributions, Albert L. Lukaszewski, in ‘Issues Concerning the Aramaic Behind ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ ἀνθρώπου: A Critical Review of Scholarship’, points to Tertullian, the first known author to suggest that Jesus hinted at his being the Son of Man of Daniel 7. In the overview of older and newer ‘Aramaic’ solutions it becomes clear that the main polemical target is Maurice Casey. Where Geza Vermes, in a seminal study from 1967, concluded

374 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s and penitential movements (David Lambert). Section 6 turns to the scrolls and early Christianity, discussing the relationship between the Essene scrolls and the New Testament (Jörg Frey) and the background of Christology (Larry Hurtado). The latter oddly perceives in certain Qumran apocalyptic characters the prototypes of the early Christian ‘binitarian’ Jesus devotion. The section ends with a useful survey of shared exegetical traditions between Qumran and the New Testament (George Brooke). In section 7 the relation between the scrolls and later Judaism is investigated. The themes include Essene and rabbinic halakhah (Aharon Shemesh); Qumran and Jewish liturgy (Daniel Falk) and the links that connect the scrolls with the Cairo Genizah and the Karaites (Stefan Reif). Section 8 is the spice of definite novelty in the Handbook. The scrolls are subjected to rhetorical criticism by Carol Newsom; Postmodernism in Roland Barthes’s style is practiced on the Teacher

of Righteousness by Maxine Grossman; and Hector Macqueen uses the lawsuit between Elisha Qimron and Hershel Shanks to clarify the law relating to the copyright of a reconstructed ancient text. The editors conclude by expressing their hope ‘that the essays brought together here are sufficient to show that little, if anything is definitively settled in the study of the Dead Sea Scrolls, and that they are likely to remain a source of vibrant debate for generations to come’ (p. 16). This is indeed one way of reading this book. Nevertheless, an old Qumran hand like this reviewer, who has lived with the scrolls for the last 63 years, closes The Oxford Handbook of the Dead Sea Scrolls with the impression that whatever the young lions of today pretend, the main lines of research have been successfully completed during the first 50 years of Qumran research and what remains to achieve is in-depth-study and an effort to integrate the scrolls into the main body of ancient Jewish literature, history, religion and culture. Geza Vermes Wolfson College, Oxford

Larry W. Hurtado and Paul L. Owen (eds), ‘Who is This Son of Man?’ The Latest Scholarship on a Puzzling Expression of the Historical Jesus. T & T Clark, London, 2011. 191 pp. £70.00. IS B N 978 0 567 52119 4. With the subtitle’s declaration that ‘son of man’ is an expression originating with the historical Jesus, the suggestion that it was a Christological title created by the early community is excluded from the beginning. It then remains the authors’ task to explore what it possibly meant in the mouth of Jesus, and if the use in the gospels corresponds to this or has developed its content. Already on the first page of the first of eight

contributions, Albert L. Lukaszewski, in ‘Issues Concerning the Aramaic Behind ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ ἀνθρώπου: A Critical Review of Scholarship’, points to Tertullian, the first known author to suggest that Jesus hinted at his being the Son of Man of Daniel 7. In the overview of older and newer ‘Aramaic’ solutions it becomes clear that the main polemical target is Maurice Casey. Where Geza Vermes, in a seminal study from 1967, concluded

r e v i e w s | 375 (and in later studies further qualified) that the phrase could be used as a circumlocution not necessarily including the person speaking, Casey, in a series of articles and books, has claimed that the Greek Son of Man originated in an Aramaic mode of speech used in general sayings, the expression first becoming an unmistakably exclusive reference to Jesus in the gospels. Lukaszewski agrees that the Vorlage was in all probability an Aramaic expression, and the next three chapters, Paul L. Owen’s, ‘Problems with Casey’s “Solution” ’, David Shepherd’s, ‘Re-solving the Son of Man “Problem” in Aramaic’ and P.J. Williams’s ‘Expressing Definiteness in Aramaic: A Response to Casey’s Theory Concerning the Son of Man Sayings’, each in their way, further contest Casey’s reconstruction and interpretation of the Aramaic expression behind the gospel’s Son of Man. The main problem with Casey’s understanding is – according to these authors – its indefiniteness in not having the historical Jesus point to a specific Son of Man. This is confirmed in Darrell L. Bock’s ‘The Use of Daniel 7 in Jesus’ Trial, with Implications for His Self-understanding’. Bock accepts the historicity of Jesus’ answer as showing it likely that ‘Jesus referred to himself as Son of Man in an apocalyptic sense.’ The conservative tendency is obvious as well in ‘The Use of the Son of Man Idiom in the Gospel of John’ by Benjamin E. Reynolds, who places himself in the trend of assessing the Johannine tradition as an old, independent source for the historical Jesus rather than as a later rewriting of the Synoptics. The last contribution, Darrell D. Hannah’s ‘The Elect Son of Man of the Parables of Enoch’, takes as its presupposition that ‘[n]o one can

hope to come to terms with the New Testament ‘Son of Man’ without some understanding of the Parables of Enoch’ (p. 136). Despite the subtitle’s claim of representing the ‘latest scholarship’ all seven articles point backwards. They assume, in a very conservative way, that the sayings of Jesus in the gospels – even in the Gospel of John – reflect more or less what was actually said by the historical Jesus. There is not much understanding of the radical transformation of traditions when they became a vehicle for the preaching of the Risen Christ in the earliest communities and mission, Paul being a representative mediator between the Jesus of history and the ‘preached Preacher’ of the gospels. However, the predictability of the volume is balanced out, or even contradicted, by the co-editor Larry W. Hurtado in his surprising ‘Summary and Concluding Observations’. As I read them, they effectively reject most of what is said in the seven previous chapters, except for some of the criticism of Casey. Hurtado states that Son of Man in the gospels is not a title, as there was no such thing as a Son of Man concept and, therefore, it also never turns up in confessional contexts. In the gospels its function ‘is to refer, not to characterize … “The son of man” can be used in sayings that stake various claims about Jesus (e.g. Jesus’ authority, or humble situation, or heavenly provenance, or eschatological significance), but it is the sentence/saying that conveys the intended claim or statement, not “the son of man” expression itself ’ (p. 166; Hurtado’s emphases). According to Hurtado, ‘son of man’ in the gospels does not function as a title, and certainly not as representation of an apocalyptic Son of Man concept.

37 6 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s This makes the question of the meaning of the possible Aramaic expression behind the phrase, whether including the person speaking or used in general sayings, interesting only concerning the historical Jesus. To the interpreter of the gospels it is important that the Greek double determinative form refers unmistakably and exclusively to Jesus. This manner of having Jesus speak about himself seems to have gained such popularity early on that we are invited to imagine that many of the Son of Man-sayings in the gospels are created by

their respective authors, an understanding confirmed by its use in the Gospel of John. Parenthetically, I was all the more pleased with the surprising ‘conclusions’ of Hurtado because they are virtually identical with the understanding of the expression in the gospels which I proposed in an article in Studia Theologica back in 1977 and later elaborated in Der Ausdruck ‘Menschensohn’ in den Evangelien in 1984. The reviewed book once more confirms the fact that the meaning of ‘son of man’ in the gospels cannot be determined outside the gospels. Mogens Müller Københavns Universitet

David Lincicum, Paul and the Early Jewish Encounter with Deuteronomy. Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, 2010. xiv, 289 pp. €64.00. IS B N 978 3 16 150386 3. In Paul and the Early Jewish Encounter with Deuteronomy, David Lincicum aims ‘to delineate the range of approaches to the “last book of Moses” in Jewish literature spanning from approximately the third century bce to the third century ce, with a special focus on the relief into which such delineation casts the apostle Paul’ (p. 3). To do this, Lincicum embraces the German method of Wirkungsgeschichte as opposed to the French intertextualité, the latter of which he believes to be plagued often by an ‘interpretative solipsism’ (p. 11). Lincicum rather focuses on ‘the broader effective history of Deuteronomy … to sketch a succession of engagements with Deuteronomy, ranging chronologically from Tobit and the Temple Scrolls to the Targums’, and, in doing so, he hopes to reveal that ‘[t]his line of interpreters effectively comprises an ongoing conversation with Deuteronomy and, implicitly, with one another (p. 11).’

The work is exceptional, if brief. After an introductory chapter discussing the history of research and rationale for the present study, and rightly circumventing what would have been an unnecessary discussion of the critical issues concerning the book of Deuteronomy itself, Lincicum proceeds by considering how Deuteronomy was used in the Second Temple Period. The second chapter, which also forms ‘Part I: The Ancient Encounter with Deuteronomy’, is perhaps one of the most important chapters in the book. Here, Lincicum explains how Deuteronomy was encountered in the Second Temple period, first materially (in both Greek and Hebrew, and in manuscripts and rolls) and then liturgically (synagogue readings; in the tefillin, mezuzot, and excerpted texts; and in the daily recitation of the Shema‘). This Septuagint specialist finds it especially praiseworthy

37 6 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s This makes the question of the meaning of the possible Aramaic expression behind the phrase, whether including the person speaking or used in general sayings, interesting only concerning the historical Jesus. To the interpreter of the gospels it is important that the Greek double determinative form refers unmistakably and exclusively to Jesus. This manner of having Jesus speak about himself seems to have gained such popularity early on that we are invited to imagine that many of the Son of Man-sayings in the gospels are created by

their respective authors, an understanding confirmed by its use in the Gospel of John. Parenthetically, I was all the more pleased with the surprising ‘conclusions’ of Hurtado because they are virtually identical with the understanding of the expression in the gospels which I proposed in an article in Studia Theologica back in 1977 and later elaborated in Der Ausdruck ‘Menschensohn’ in den Evangelien in 1984. The reviewed book once more confirms the fact that the meaning of ‘son of man’ in the gospels cannot be determined outside the gospels. Mogens Müller Københavns Universitet

David Lincicum, Paul and the Early Jewish Encounter with Deuteronomy. Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, 2010. xiv, 289 pp. €64.00. IS B N 978 3 16 150386 3. In Paul and the Early Jewish Encounter with Deuteronomy, David Lincicum aims ‘to delineate the range of approaches to the “last book of Moses” in Jewish literature spanning from approximately the third century bce to the third century ce, with a special focus on the relief into which such delineation casts the apostle Paul’ (p. 3). To do this, Lincicum embraces the German method of Wirkungsgeschichte as opposed to the French intertextualité, the latter of which he believes to be plagued often by an ‘interpretative solipsism’ (p. 11). Lincicum rather focuses on ‘the broader effective history of Deuteronomy … to sketch a succession of engagements with Deuteronomy, ranging chronologically from Tobit and the Temple Scrolls to the Targums’, and, in doing so, he hopes to reveal that ‘[t]his line of interpreters effectively comprises an ongoing conversation with Deuteronomy and, implicitly, with one another (p. 11).’

The work is exceptional, if brief. After an introductory chapter discussing the history of research and rationale for the present study, and rightly circumventing what would have been an unnecessary discussion of the critical issues concerning the book of Deuteronomy itself, Lincicum proceeds by considering how Deuteronomy was used in the Second Temple Period. The second chapter, which also forms ‘Part I: The Ancient Encounter with Deuteronomy’, is perhaps one of the most important chapters in the book. Here, Lincicum explains how Deuteronomy was encountered in the Second Temple period, first materially (in both Greek and Hebrew, and in manuscripts and rolls) and then liturgically (synagogue readings; in the tefillin, mezuzot, and excerpted texts; and in the daily recitation of the Shema‘). This Septuagint specialist finds it especially praiseworthy

r e v i e w s | 37 7 that Lincicum’s treatment of the textual forms of Deuteronomy in the Second Temple period reflects a profound understanding of the textual situation in both the Hebrew and Greek traditions. Septuagint scholars occasionally disregard what New Testament scholars write in this respect on account of numerous inaccuracies and rather facile assumptions (just as – to be fair – New Testament scholars rightly ignore what many of us write about the New Testament). Lincicum discusses the tefillin and mezuzot because they ‘provide a glimpse into a daily act of remembrance called forth by and executed by means of the words of Scripture themselves.’ He is surely correct to have included them since ‘[t]o ignore such an identityshaping act can only impoverish our understanding of Deuteronomy’s reception in the Second Temple era’ (p. 46). The conclusion is clear: Paul’s approach was especially shaped by his liturgical encounter with the (probably) Greek text of Deuteronomy ‘in a Greek-speaking synagogue during his days of study in Jerusalem’ (p. 49). Importantly, even if he preferred specific sections, Paul encountered the whole of Deuteronomy in his studies. Lincicum effectively undermines theories that have Paul (and, by extension, other NT authors?) learning the Scriptures through collections of so-called testimonia. In the six chapters of ‘Part II: Reading Deuteronomy’, Lincicum engages with the various ways in which Deuteronomy was encountered ‘spanning the time from Tobit and the Temple Scroll to the Targums.’ Lincicum admits that his investigation does not aim ‘to offer an exhaustive and archival catalogue’ of the quotations of Deuteronomy, but instead attempts ‘to

arrive at a representative typology of reading strategies as discerned in various corpora’ (p. 61). The author scrutinizes the use of Deuteronomy at Qumran and finds that appeal to the authority of Deuteronomy is achieved in multiple ways. While the form changes, the status of Deuteronomy does not. The history of Israel is to be understood, according to the sectarians, ‘on the basis of Deuteronomy’s own diagnosis and prognosis’ (p. 84). Lincicum then examines the use of Deuteronomy in the Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha which engaged with Deuteronomy for the same reasons that motivated the Qumran sectarians. The difficulties of the present situation were to be understood in the light of the Deuteronomic paradigm, and hope, therefore, was to be placed in the eschatological future. The chapter on Philo is perhaps most open to criticism. The Alexandrian takes up the ancient strategy that employs Deuteronomy’s own narrative structure as a way to reformulate its message for his own day. But Philo is an enormously complex figure and his exegetical methods can hardly be appreciated on just 17 pages. Nonetheless, in a work such as this, if Philo must be included – and he must – then Lincicum shows how to write about him in the most concise manner. Chapter 6, the longest in the volume, is dedicated to Paul. Here, chapter 2 becomes all the more important, since it has persuasively laid out the material and liturgical realities concerning the use of the book of Deuteronomy in and before Paul’s time. Lincicum draws three conclusions from the apostle’s most explicit engagements with the book. First, most Deuteronomic citations are found in the Hauptbriefe; second, they span all of the major portions of

37 8 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s Deuteronomy (except the prologue and the blessing and death of Moses); third, while there was a broad sampling from the whole of the book, Paul certainly had his favourites; fourth, Paul used a Greek text; and finally, it is now obvious that Deuteronomy was – along with Isaiah, the Psalter, and Genesis – very important to the apostle (pp. 120–22). In the light of the study that has led us to this point, Lincicum has persuaded that indeed the ‘“liturgical-anamnetic” encounter with Deuteronomy provides the most promising global model for thinking about how Paul came to know the scroll of Deuteronomy.’ Lincicum goes on to demonstrate the ethical, theological, and historical importance for Paul of the book of Deuteronomy, including the staggering way in which the Shema‘ was reinterpreted by Paul, who presented Jesus as the true intent of Israel’s confession. Lincicum’s sixth chapter forcefully exhibits Paul as a Jewish interpreter, and from Lincicum’s argument, one could imagine a scene in which Paul sits alongside a Qumran

sectarian, the person who wrote Baruch, Philo, and Josephus, reading Deuteronomy, disagreeing only on the ultimate goal of the text (for Paul it is Christ). Chapter 7 and 8 examine Josephus and then the ‘later trajectories’ included Sifre and the Targums. Though Lincicum admits that his investigation does not aim ‘to offer an exhaustive and archival catalogue’ of the quotations of Deuteronomy, but instead attempts ‘to arrive at a representative typology of reading strategies as discerned in various corpora’ (p. 61), an elaboration would be a useful future project for Lincicum or any other scholar who wishes to build upon his work. Chapter 6 on Paul’s Deuteronomy contains the type of deep engagement we would like to see with the other sources (Qumran, Philo, and so on). In sum, Lincicum’s work is the type of analysis one would expect from a student of Markus Bockmuehl. The level of engagement is profound, and Lincicum’s witty style makes the book enjoyable to read, whether in the library or elsewhere. T.M. Law Oriental Institute, Oxford

David Instone-Brewer, Traditions of the Rabbis from the Era of the New Testament. Volume 2A. Feasts and Sabbaths: Passover and Atonement. Eerdmans, Grand Rapids, MI, 2011. xviii, 382 pp. £40.99/$60.00. IS B N 978 0 8028 4763 8. The dating of the earliest rabbinic traditions is widely recognized as fraught with daunting difficulties. It is not therefore surprising that some scholars have opted to place these within the Second Temple period while others have preferred to see their origins, or at least the origins of their edited format, in the late talmudic or post-talmudic period. Often the motivation for these variant

views has been devotional, theological, tendentious or iconoclastic and few have been able to approach the matter in a clinical and genuinely scientific manner. All credit then to Instone-Brewer for enthusiastically and devotedly taking on such a difficult task. As a teacher and researcher of rabbinics and the New Testament, he has set out to identify which of the traditions recorded in the

37 8 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s Deuteronomy (except the prologue and the blessing and death of Moses); third, while there was a broad sampling from the whole of the book, Paul certainly had his favourites; fourth, Paul used a Greek text; and finally, it is now obvious that Deuteronomy was – along with Isaiah, the Psalter, and Genesis – very important to the apostle (pp. 120–22). In the light of the study that has led us to this point, Lincicum has persuaded that indeed the ‘“liturgical-anamnetic” encounter with Deuteronomy provides the most promising global model for thinking about how Paul came to know the scroll of Deuteronomy.’ Lincicum goes on to demonstrate the ethical, theological, and historical importance for Paul of the book of Deuteronomy, including the staggering way in which the Shema‘ was reinterpreted by Paul, who presented Jesus as the true intent of Israel’s confession. Lincicum’s sixth chapter forcefully exhibits Paul as a Jewish interpreter, and from Lincicum’s argument, one could imagine a scene in which Paul sits alongside a Qumran

sectarian, the person who wrote Baruch, Philo, and Josephus, reading Deuteronomy, disagreeing only on the ultimate goal of the text (for Paul it is Christ). Chapter 7 and 8 examine Josephus and then the ‘later trajectories’ included Sifre and the Targums. Though Lincicum admits that his investigation does not aim ‘to offer an exhaustive and archival catalogue’ of the quotations of Deuteronomy, but instead attempts ‘to arrive at a representative typology of reading strategies as discerned in various corpora’ (p. 61), an elaboration would be a useful future project for Lincicum or any other scholar who wishes to build upon his work. Chapter 6 on Paul’s Deuteronomy contains the type of deep engagement we would like to see with the other sources (Qumran, Philo, and so on). In sum, Lincicum’s work is the type of analysis one would expect from a student of Markus Bockmuehl. The level of engagement is profound, and Lincicum’s witty style makes the book enjoyable to read, whether in the library or elsewhere. T.M. Law Oriental Institute, Oxford

David Instone-Brewer, Traditions of the Rabbis from the Era of the New Testament. Volume 2A. Feasts and Sabbaths: Passover and Atonement. Eerdmans, Grand Rapids, MI, 2011. xviii, 382 pp. £40.99/$60.00. IS B N 978 0 8028 4763 8. The dating of the earliest rabbinic traditions is widely recognized as fraught with daunting difficulties. It is not therefore surprising that some scholars have opted to place these within the Second Temple period while others have preferred to see their origins, or at least the origins of their edited format, in the late talmudic or post-talmudic period. Often the motivation for these variant

views has been devotional, theological, tendentious or iconoclastic and few have been able to approach the matter in a clinical and genuinely scientific manner. All credit then to Instone-Brewer for enthusiastically and devotedly taking on such a difficult task. As a teacher and researcher of rabbinics and the New Testament, he has set out to identify which of the traditions recorded in the

r e v i e w s | 37 9 Mishnah, Tosefta and earliest midrashim may genuinely be assigned a date before 70 ce, so that they can be related in a convincing way to the teachings of Jesus and his earliest followers. He has done this by translating and annotating hundreds of texts, mainly from the Mishnah, and the volume here being reviewed is the second (dealing with the first five tractates in Mo‘ed ) in a projected series of seven that will follow the order of the Mishnah, the first volume dealing with the order of Zera‘im having appeared in 2004 under the sub-title ‘Prayer and Agriculture’. The treatment has been dispassionately undertaken and admirably completed, and the primary objective has not been to offer traditional rabbinic exegesis or to quarrel with any particular scholarly stance but to suggest in a sound fashion which comments may genuinely be early. Having begun his research with a profound, and understandable, scepticism about whether any of these rabbinic traditions may predate the second century, he now admits to a growing conviction that there are many that may be separated out from the bulk and traced back to a time when the Temple functioned at the centre of much of Judaism. He of course recognizes that we may not be dealing with the precise original format of a text but rather, more accurately, with the core of a tradition. But this is obviously of no great significance if all that he wishes to do is to establish whether such core material was present within the corpus of Jewish teachings in the time of Jesus. It is also unnecessary for him to master every nuance of rabbinic expression, argumentation and exegesis in order to be able to offer some suggestions as to dates. He is wholly conscious of the fact that

such suggestions must remain speculative but knows how important it is for the history of early rabbinic Judaism and nascent Christianity that some progress be made in this matter. He carefully analyses all the texts and subjects them to critical comparison with biblical precedents, parallel material in the Dead Sea Scrolls and in the New Testament, and later talmudic-midrashic teachings. Instone-Brewer has made a good effort at understanding the intricacies of the tannaitic sources and his suggestions for dating some traditions earlier than others are generally feasible. It is greatly to his credit that he never sits in judgement on the rabbis or adopts tendentious positions regarding their teachings. This does not mean that he is unaware of the many cases in which the rabbis, like all religious leaders and innovators, rewrote the past according to their own ideology. When, in his view, this occurs, he quietly draws attention to it. He also offers some convincing explanations of how rabbinic leaders from different periods can be cited in the same texts as if they were contemporaries (as on p. 224). As well as introducing each set of topics and their relevant texts, and providing excellent summaries of his findings at the end of each tractate, he benefits the reader with detailed analyses of complicated historical, theological, cultic, financial and calendrical topics. Though essentially based on texts, and on their translation and interpretation, his treatment is nevertheless also therefore historical in the broadest sense and will at times help even the specialists in the rabbinic area to understand the total picture. There are all manners of important insights, not the least of which is his statement that ‘Qumran and perhaps others in Israel followed stricter

38 0 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s Sabbath laws than the rabbis and this makes it likely that rabbinic rulings were closer to the practice of ordinary people’ (p. 85). Inevitably, there are some interpretations that need to be corrected or refined so that inaccuracies can be avoided in future volumes. Insufficient distinction is made between ‫ פטור‬and ‫מותר‬, which are only rarely identical in meaning. Certain kinds of throwing from one domain to another on Shabbat may not be forbidden according to Torah legislation but they are not ab initio ‘permitted’ (pp. 2 and 42). A ‫רשות‬ ‫מלחמת‬ is not strictly a ‘permitted battle’ but an optional war, as distinct from the obligatory ones against the Canaanite peoples (pp. 17–19, and see p. 179 regarding optional foods at the Passover seder). The forgiveness mentioned in Tosefta Yoma 4.13 (‫לו‬ ‫ )מוחלין‬is more likely from heaven than through a priest or a rabbi (p. 324), while the Sabbath limit of 2,000 cubits was not for travelling, which was forbidden, but for walking (pp. 50, 87 and 349). What evidence is there for the claim that ‘the opening negotiations for marriage contracts and prayers for the sick often occurred in the synagogue’ (p. 71) and how does he explain the custom of some communities to eat roast lamb on Passover night if this was categorically

prohibited ‘very soon after 70 ce’ (p. 117). Examples of translations that are inaccurate are ‫( חוששני‬p. 66) which means ‘I am afraid’ and not ‘I do not agonize’; ‫( אור ל‬p. 118) which means ‘the night before’ and not ‘[in the] light of’; ‫בנין אב‬ (p. 195) which is based on the word for ‘building’ (here, an inference) and does not literally mean ‘sons of a father’; ‫וכיון‬ ‫( שראו בית דין‬p. 260) which is not ‘and the Court came to see’ but ‘when the Court saw’. And why is ‫( טעונים גניזה‬p. 46) translated ‘they require defending from the fire’? More minor slips include periqin for ‘redemptions’ (p. 219); ‫ ענל‬for ‫( עגל‬twice on p. 230); erab for erev (p. 342); and nakhri for nokhri (p. 346). But these inadequacies do not significantly reduce the overall importance of Instone-Brewer’s worthy achievement. It is much to be hoped that his institution, Tyndale House in Cambridge, England, and the publishers will stay loyal to this massive project and that the author himself will find the time, energy and dedication to continue with his efforts and see them successfully completed over not too lengthy a period. The world of New Testament and early Christian scholarship would particularly benefit from the availability at an early date of all seven volumes. Stefan C. Reif St John’s College, Cambridge

Christopher Rowland and Christopher R.A. Morray-Jones, The Mystery of God: Early Jewish Mysticism and the New Testament, Brill, Leiden, 2009. xxvii, 685 pp. €195.00. IS B N 978 90 04 17532 7. Each of the two authors wrote a major part of this very substantial work. Christopher Rowland is responsible for Part I about ‘Approaching Mysticism from the Perspective of the New Testament and the Jewish Apocalypses’,

while Christopher R.A. Morray-Jones wrote Parts II and III about ‘Approaching the New Testament from the Perspective of the Merkabah Traditions’ and ‘Approaching the New Testament from the Perspective of Shiur Qomah

38 0 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s Sabbath laws than the rabbis and this makes it likely that rabbinic rulings were closer to the practice of ordinary people’ (p. 85). Inevitably, there are some interpretations that need to be corrected or refined so that inaccuracies can be avoided in future volumes. Insufficient distinction is made between ‫ פטור‬and ‫מותר‬, which are only rarely identical in meaning. Certain kinds of throwing from one domain to another on Shabbat may not be forbidden according to Torah legislation but they are not ab initio ‘permitted’ (pp. 2 and 42). A ‫רשות‬ ‫מלחמת‬ is not strictly a ‘permitted battle’ but an optional war, as distinct from the obligatory ones against the Canaanite peoples (pp. 17–19, and see p. 179 regarding optional foods at the Passover seder). The forgiveness mentioned in Tosefta Yoma 4.13 (‫לו‬ ‫ )מוחלין‬is more likely from heaven than through a priest or a rabbi (p. 324), while the Sabbath limit of 2,000 cubits was not for travelling, which was forbidden, but for walking (pp. 50, 87 and 349). What evidence is there for the claim that ‘the opening negotiations for marriage contracts and prayers for the sick often occurred in the synagogue’ (p. 71) and how does he explain the custom of some communities to eat roast lamb on Passover night if this was categorically

prohibited ‘very soon after 70 ce’ (p. 117). Examples of translations that are inaccurate are ‫( חוששני‬p. 66) which means ‘I am afraid’ and not ‘I do not agonize’; ‫( אור ל‬p. 118) which means ‘the night before’ and not ‘[in the] light of’; ‫בנין אב‬ (p. 195) which is based on the word for ‘building’ (here, an inference) and does not literally mean ‘sons of a father’; ‫וכיון‬ ‫( שראו בית דין‬p. 260) which is not ‘and the Court came to see’ but ‘when the Court saw’. And why is ‫( טעונים גניזה‬p. 46) translated ‘they require defending from the fire’? More minor slips include periqin for ‘redemptions’ (p. 219); ‫ ענל‬for ‫( עגל‬twice on p. 230); erab for erev (p. 342); and nakhri for nokhri (p. 346). But these inadequacies do not significantly reduce the overall importance of Instone-Brewer’s worthy achievement. It is much to be hoped that his institution, Tyndale House in Cambridge, England, and the publishers will stay loyal to this massive project and that the author himself will find the time, energy and dedication to continue with his efforts and see them successfully completed over not too lengthy a period. The world of New Testament and early Christian scholarship would particularly benefit from the availability at an early date of all seven volumes. Stefan C. Reif St John’s College, Cambridge

Christopher Rowland and Christopher R.A. Morray-Jones, The Mystery of God: Early Jewish Mysticism and the New Testament, Brill, Leiden, 2009. xxvii, 685 pp. €195.00. IS B N 978 90 04 17532 7. Each of the two authors wrote a major part of this very substantial work. Christopher Rowland is responsible for Part I about ‘Approaching Mysticism from the Perspective of the New Testament and the Jewish Apocalypses’,

while Christopher R.A. Morray-Jones wrote Parts II and III about ‘Approaching the New Testament from the Perspective of the Merkabah Traditions’ and ‘Approaching the New Testament from the Perspective of Shiur Qomah

r e v i e w s | 381 Traditions’. Quite apart from the new and varied perceptions of issues in the study and interpretation of the New Testament that each author presents, the book provides a good deal of insight into the particular aspects of Judaism on which they have concentrated. Rowland is concerned with the Jewish apocalypses and their experiential and sapiential dimensions, while Morray-Jones concentrates on the Merkabah and Shiur Qomah literatures, early types of Jewish mystical writing, and the insights they can provide into the New Testament. The whole undertaking seems to this reviewer to be very worthwhile. It is by no means self-evident that these two sequential expressions of mystical or experiential dimensions of Judaism, the apocalypses and then the Merkabah (also sometimes called the Hekhalot) and Shiur Qomah literatures, are each a creation de novo of the period from which its first literary expressions derived. Nor, on the other hand, is it evident that they derived directly from one another. It was Gershom Scholem – in his Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism (1954) and Jewish Gnosticism, Merkabah Mysticism and Talmudic Tradition (1960) – who traced a terminological and conceptual sequence from the early Jewish apocalypses such as 1 Enoch and Apocalypse of Abraham through certain texts in Rabbinic literature, flowing into the earliest stages of mystical writing. (The place of the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice in this tradition was already recognized by scholars at the time, see J. Strugnell, ‘The Angelic Liturgy At Qumran: 4QSerek Shirot ‘Olat Hash-shabbat’, in Vetus Testamentum Supplement, vol. 7 (1960), pp. 318–45, an article published in the same year as Scholem’s Jewish Gnosticism, see

Peter Schäfer’s book below).The existence of this sequence as a sequence has been much discussed and often attacked, particularly in the period since Scholem’s death in 1982, though his interpretation of the famous Baraitha in b. Sanhedrin 14b was earlier challenged, among others, by Ephraim E. Urbach in an article in the Festschrift presented to Scholem for his seventieth birthday in 1967. (The matter has been much debated, and Peter Schäfer has set forth the discussion with a very clear assessment in his The Origins of Jewish Mysticism, 2009, providing the history of the debate since Scholem’s Major Trends.) Scholem also highlighted the connection between this material and Paul’s reference to his ascent to the third heaven in 2 Cor. 12:22. Behind this synthesis lay certain assumptions that have motivated much of the criticism levelled at it. It assumed a tradition of mystical contemplation that was transmitted from one generation to another, from one literary genre to another, from one stream of religious thought to another. It assumed that such a tradition of esoteric learning, typified also by its terminology, was shared by the apocalypses, some Qumran documents, the Merkabah texts, Shiur Qomah, and Paul. Despite changes during the halfcentury that has passed, this set of issues lurks in the background of much of the present book. While Rowland takes account of the scholarly debate, his case for the experiential and mystical nature of apocalyptic revelation had already been made (I judge convincingly) in his important work The Open Heaven: A Study of Apocalyptic in Judaism and Early Christianity (1982). After establishing his terms of reference in chapters, which will be particularly useful to all

38 2 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s students of Second Temple Judaism, he deals systematically with different corpora of New Testament writings – Revelation, Gospels and Acts, Paul, Hebrews – as illuminated by the apocalypses. He concludes with a chapter on the Ascension of Isaiah and one entitled ‘Things into which Angels Long to Look: Apocalypticism, Mysticism and Eschatology in the New Testament’. His very clear contribution offers an important statement of a series of issues that both stand in the forefront of the study of apocalyptic literature and challenge New Testaments exegetes to respond. In the section on the Merkabah literature, Morray-Jones has to present this literature and the chief scholarly issues (to some of which we have referred above) to New Testament scholars, and they are, perhaps, less known to them than the apocalypses are. He also has to argue against those who would challenge the view that the roots of the early layers of this literature are Tannaitic in date (i.e. of the first two centuries ce) for, if a later dating is accepted, the relevance of this literature to New Testament scholars becomes a harder case to make. He does this in his first chapter of the book, which is followed by a translation of the Merkabah work Hekhalot Zutarti (‘The Lesser Hekhalot’) and a treatment of 2 Cor 12:1–12. A long critique of a study by Alon Goshen-Gottstein of the ‘Four who Entered Paradise’ passage follows. In Part III of the book, MorrayJones deals with the insights offered by the Shiur Qomah traditions for New Testament exegesis. Shiur Qomah is regarded by many as a very old layer indeed of the mystical tradition. Its purported subject are the enormous, indeed fantastically large measurements

of the Divine body. Morray-Jones sets the tradition forth clearly, and traces its literary influence in a number of works and contexts, particularly some ‘gnostic’ or ‘gnosticizing’ compositions, and then proceeds to a chapter devoted to Ephesians. Each of the authors presents the literature of a major ‘mystical’ tradition of Judaism, one older (on the whole) than the New Testament and the other younger, and both clearly state the chief issues for New Testament scholars raised by study of them. As such, this book provides a fine introduction to the two traditions. The authors have examined the corpus of New Testament literature to see what light these traditions have cast upon it. Both analyses depend crucially on certain opinions, which have been disputed, though this reviewer remains convinced of their basic correctness. The apocalyptic literature as understood by Rowland demands that a mysticalexperiential type of Jewish religion and of religious knowledge be considered when reading the New Testament. Such a view offers a number of ways of interpreting issues in understanding the New Testament. Morray-Jones has to make his case for the relatively early date of the Hekhalot and Shiur Qomah traditions, for them to provide us with any help in understanding the New Testament. Both authors have faced these challenges boldly and responded to them, opening up and emphasizing dimensions of the New Testament that are not usually highlighted. I congratulate them on a fine contribution to the discussion of somewhat neglected dimensions of earliest Christianity. Michael E. Stone Hebrew University of Jerusalem

r e v i e w s | 383 Yaron Z. Eliav, Elise A. Friedland and Sharon Herbert (eds), The Sculptural Environment of the Roman Near East. Reflections on Culture, Ideology, and Power. Peeters, Leuven, 2008. xvi, 770 pp. €85.00. IS B N 978 90 429 2004 0. The twenty-eight papers collected in this volume formed the substance of an international conference hosted by the University of Michigan and the Toledo Museum of Art in November 2007. The title of the book reflects the balance which the editors have sought to strike between the study of statuary specifically and broader historical thinking on the Roman Near East. Their honourable compromise, however, fails to convey the great sweep of subjects which greet the reader, covering between them some six centuries. The large number of essays have forced upon the editors the requirement to cluster papers under six sub-headings: ‘Encompassing Hellenism: The Dynamics of Extended Cultures’; ‘Origin, Production, and Fate’; ‘TwoDimensional Landscapes: Re-presenting Statues in Other Media’; ‘Engaging the Realm of the Gods’; ‘Urban Landscapes and Perceptions’; and ‘Social, Political and Religious Discourses’. Their consideration is to be commended, but there are commonalities of subjects and themes throughout the volume. From the bridgehead established by Fergus Millar and Maurice Sartre (both fittingly present), scholarship has fanned out as never before into the territories now conceptualised as ‘the Roman Near East’. The whole subject is a lively ferment of debate and almost all of the significant contributors to it are to be found in this collection. Only a sample of what is offered can be presented here (the editors’ own overview is to be found on pp. 1–11), but with its range and excellent bibliography, the collection is a highly valuable resource for scholars from

diverse areas of study. The position and outlook of the Jews in this world is a major theme and statuary and iconography continue to be a high-road into the whole question of their identity in the Roman Near East. In Gamaliel, famously conversing with Proclus in the baths of Aphrodite (m‘Abod. Zar. 3:4), Maurice Sartre detects a searching out of a middle-way in a Syria suffused with the métissage of Hellenism and local cultures (p. 48), and Aharon Oppenheimer revisits the post-Temple Passover seder as influenced by the GrecoRoman symposium, drawing valuable attention to the gap between halakhah and actual practice (p. 56). Yaron Eliav brings together Jewish (Danielic) and Christian perceptions on the particular role attributed to statuary by the rhetoric of desecration (p. 607 ff.), and Richard Kalmin sees beneath the (Babylonian) rabbinic denunciation of idols evidence of a rather more complex engagement between Jews and pagan symbols in late antiquity (pp. 631 ff.). Studying statues and sculptural images in Galilee, Ze’ev Weiss argues contra Seth Schwartz that they indicate a Jewish engagement with ‘Roman urban culture’ rather than a knowing adjacency to paganism (p. 574). If it were needed, the volume is a convincing reminder to historians that the manufacture, iconography and dispersal of sculpture are each of them indispensable areas of inquiry. Gideon Foerster points out that all the major pieces arrived by way of importation (p. 70), much of it in the idiom of Hellenistic Idealplastik, and that Roman Palestine has delivered the richest deposits for the

38 4 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s whole Roman Near East (p. 73). Moshe Fischer traces as Proconnesian the most significant pieces recovered from Ascalon (p. 501) and emphasizes the specifically sculptural impact of the Augustan revolution. Given the overwhelming evidence for the importation of statuary into the region, Peter Rockwell’s examination of a sculptor’s workshop in Aphrodisias is a reminder of the sophistication of production (with a splendid photograph of ancient tools at p. 113) as well as an insight into the commerce. One of the most famous civic projects in the eastern Mediterranean was the transformation of Strato’s Tower by Herod into the great port of Caesarea Maritima. An excellent paper by Rivka Gersht evokes the landscape of the city vividly, restoring the sculptural programme of the circuses and theatre and suggesting once again the close connections between the art of Herod’s city and Augustus’ own in Rome (pp. 517–19). For late antiquity, Kenneth Holum evokes through re-located ancient sculptures the grammarians’ hall of the Byzantine Esplanade (p. 558) – a world away from the seething demons of Christian rhetoric. The mechanics of statue-destruction are established by John Pollini (p. 167 ff.), and the fate of pieces at Beth Shean in late antiquity reveal to Yoran Tsafrir a process of defacement preceding their final removal (p. 134), while the ‘meticulousness of the mutilation’ of Egyptian images in late antiquity suggests to David Frankfurter their continuing potency into Christian late antiquity (p. 662). Frank Trombley traces the great large-scale destruction of statues under first Constantine and subsequently Theodosius but rightly

distinguishes between perceptions of actual threat and the assertion of the imperial, or local, governing will (p. 164) – arguably a striking parallel with the conduct of the persecution of Christians in the empire itself. Raymond Van Dam re-examines the great riot at Antioch in 387 ce, seeing fascinatingly beyond the violence an exasperated reaction by Antiochenes both Christian and pagan to the perceived loss of status of the great city in the previous generation (p. 453), and Ellen Perry offers welcome nuance on Libanius’ ‘desacralization’ of statues in his Pro Templis alongside his own periodic supplication of the same (p. 437 ff.). A cautionary paper from Benjamin Isaac warns against anachronistic modern interpretations of ancient statuary as abstract symbolism, recommending instead a realism more consonant with ancient mythology and the workings of personal power (p. 577). The tenacity of local cult symbols (and presumably practice) evidenced by statuary is strikingly confirmed by excellent essays on various regions. At Palmyra Michal Gawlikowski reconstructs the archaic statue of Allat as preserved within the Antonine temple even as she was acculturated as Athena for those of Hellenic sympathies (p. 409). In his analysis of four southern Syria sanctuaries, Thomas Weber identifies that at Harran al-Awanid as focused on Cronos-El (p. 373), and Elise Friedland’s study of the visualisations of Athena/ Athena-Allat in the Roman Near East turns up a marvellous stele from Khanasser depicting Athena seated on a camel (p. 336, fig. 12)! Fergus Millar sees in the mosaics of the Near East a unique source conveying the use of several dominant languages and cultures of the region. Only in mosaics can

r e v i e w s | 385 Jewish, Christian and pagan institutions be examined in the same medium in contexts as diverse as Osrhoene, Sepphoris and Saint Catherine’s Monastery on Sinai (p. 225 ff.) The editors have accomplished the collection and presentation of vigorous thinking on a host of issues by the most distinguished scholars in the field. A welcome number of the essays are highly accessible, provocative and well served by figures and bibliography. Few readers will escape moments of illumination

provided throughout the volume by the curious voices of the Roman Near East: an inscription of first-century ce date on the paw of the guardian lion at the precinct in Palmyra declaring ‘May Allat bless whoever does not spill blood on the precinct’ (p. 408); the inscribed medallion wreathed in acanthus and proclaiming ‘Advance Ascalon! Advance Rome!’ (p. 501); and the cryptically ambivalent grafitto of one ‘Lauricius’ from Wadi Rum in Jordan (p. 508): ‘The Romans always win’. John Curran The Queen’s University of Belfast

Avi Avidov, Not Reckoned among Nations: The Origins of the So-called ‘Jewish Question’ in Antiquity (Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 128). Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, 2009. xii, 226 pp. €79.00. IS B N 978 3 16 150021 3. The subtitle of this important and stimulating study sets the agenda from the outset. For the author, the ‘Jewish Question’ has to do with participation and/or exclusion from the larger social context in which Jews have found themselves, often, especially since the European Enlightenment, giving rise to a virulent anti-Semitism. The author suspects that this is not just a modern phenomenon, but has its roots in the social and political world of Roman antiquity. To verify this claim he sets out to explore the notions of marginalization and integration as these applied in Roman social relations, with particular attention to the ways in which these categories are relevant to Jews. For him marginality in social terms refers to ‘segments of society, which for whatever reason are unable or unwilling to fully play out their expected roles within it’ (p. 3). Part I turns the spotlight on the first Jewish Revolt against Rome, particularly

the latter’s treatment of the Jews in its immediate aftermath. The destruction of the temple, the humiliation of the Jewish people and its national symbols in the triumphant celebrations, the vilification of Jewish beliefs and practices by various Roman writers, are all seen as contributing to a situation in which ‘hatred of the Jews is taken to be not just normative, but normal’ (p. 7). Full marginalization occurs when a certain minority is resigned to accepting this condition, aware that its primary reference group has lost out in a trial of strength with those controlling the larger ethos. In the Jewish case this resignation manifested itself variously, especially in the flight from history. A specifically Jewish historiography, the author claims, had begun to decline after the Babylonian exile, and while some Jewish authors adopted Hellenistic historiographic styles, including Josephus, no indigenous Jewish genre of history emerged, it is claimed (pp. 12–19).

r e v i e w s | 383 Yaron Z. Eliav, Elise A. Friedland and Sharon Herbert (eds), The Sculptural Environment of the Roman Near East. Reflections on Culture, Ideology, and Power. Peeters, Leuven, 2008. xvi, 770 pp. €85.00. IS B N 978 90 429 2004 0. The twenty-eight papers collected in this volume formed the substance of an international conference hosted by the University of Michigan and the Toledo Museum of Art in November 2007. The title of the book reflects the balance which the editors have sought to strike between the study of statuary specifically and broader historical thinking on the Roman Near East. Their honourable compromise, however, fails to convey the great sweep of subjects which greet the reader, covering between them some six centuries. The large number of essays have forced upon the editors the requirement to cluster papers under six sub-headings: ‘Encompassing Hellenism: The Dynamics of Extended Cultures’; ‘Origin, Production, and Fate’; ‘TwoDimensional Landscapes: Re-presenting Statues in Other Media’; ‘Engaging the Realm of the Gods’; ‘Urban Landscapes and Perceptions’; and ‘Social, Political and Religious Discourses’. Their consideration is to be commended, but there are commonalities of subjects and themes throughout the volume. From the bridgehead established by Fergus Millar and Maurice Sartre (both fittingly present), scholarship has fanned out as never before into the territories now conceptualised as ‘the Roman Near East’. The whole subject is a lively ferment of debate and almost all of the significant contributors to it are to be found in this collection. Only a sample of what is offered can be presented here (the editors’ own overview is to be found on pp. 1–11), but with its range and excellent bibliography, the collection is a highly valuable resource for scholars from

diverse areas of study. The position and outlook of the Jews in this world is a major theme and statuary and iconography continue to be a high-road into the whole question of their identity in the Roman Near East. In Gamaliel, famously conversing with Proclus in the baths of Aphrodite (m‘Abod. Zar. 3:4), Maurice Sartre detects a searching out of a middle-way in a Syria suffused with the métissage of Hellenism and local cultures (p. 48), and Aharon Oppenheimer revisits the post-Temple Passover seder as influenced by the GrecoRoman symposium, drawing valuable attention to the gap between halakhah and actual practice (p. 56). Yaron Eliav brings together Jewish (Danielic) and Christian perceptions on the particular role attributed to statuary by the rhetoric of desecration (p. 607 ff.), and Richard Kalmin sees beneath the (Babylonian) rabbinic denunciation of idols evidence of a rather more complex engagement between Jews and pagan symbols in late antiquity (pp. 631 ff.). Studying statues and sculptural images in Galilee, Ze’ev Weiss argues contra Seth Schwartz that they indicate a Jewish engagement with ‘Roman urban culture’ rather than a knowing adjacency to paganism (p. 574). If it were needed, the volume is a convincing reminder to historians that the manufacture, iconography and dispersal of sculpture are each of them indispensable areas of inquiry. Gideon Foerster points out that all the major pieces arrived by way of importation (p. 70), much of it in the idiom of Hellenistic Idealplastik, and that Roman Palestine has delivered the richest deposits for the

38 4 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s whole Roman Near East (p. 73). Moshe Fischer traces as Proconnesian the most significant pieces recovered from Ascalon (p. 501) and emphasizes the specifically sculptural impact of the Augustan revolution. Given the overwhelming evidence for the importation of statuary into the region, Peter Rockwell’s examination of a sculptor’s workshop in Aphrodisias is a reminder of the sophistication of production (with a splendid photograph of ancient tools at p. 113) as well as an insight into the commerce. One of the most famous civic projects in the eastern Mediterranean was the transformation of Strato’s Tower by Herod into the great port of Caesarea Maritima. An excellent paper by Rivka Gersht evokes the landscape of the city vividly, restoring the sculptural programme of the circuses and theatre and suggesting once again the close connections between the art of Herod’s city and Augustus’ own in Rome (pp. 517–19). For late antiquity, Kenneth Holum evokes through re-located ancient sculptures the grammarians’ hall of the Byzantine Esplanade (p. 558) – a world away from the seething demons of Christian rhetoric. The mechanics of statue-destruction are established by John Pollini (p. 167 ff.), and the fate of pieces at Beth Shean in late antiquity reveal to Yoran Tsafrir a process of defacement preceding their final removal (p. 134), while the ‘meticulousness of the mutilation’ of Egyptian images in late antiquity suggests to David Frankfurter their continuing potency into Christian late antiquity (p. 662). Frank Trombley traces the great large-scale destruction of statues under first Constantine and subsequently Theodosius but rightly

distinguishes between perceptions of actual threat and the assertion of the imperial, or local, governing will (p. 164) – arguably a striking parallel with the conduct of the persecution of Christians in the empire itself. Raymond Van Dam re-examines the great riot at Antioch in 387 ce, seeing fascinatingly beyond the violence an exasperated reaction by Antiochenes both Christian and pagan to the perceived loss of status of the great city in the previous generation (p. 453), and Ellen Perry offers welcome nuance on Libanius’ ‘desacralization’ of statues in his Pro Templis alongside his own periodic supplication of the same (p. 437 ff.). A cautionary paper from Benjamin Isaac warns against anachronistic modern interpretations of ancient statuary as abstract symbolism, recommending instead a realism more consonant with ancient mythology and the workings of personal power (p. 577). The tenacity of local cult symbols (and presumably practice) evidenced by statuary is strikingly confirmed by excellent essays on various regions. At Palmyra Michal Gawlikowski reconstructs the archaic statue of Allat as preserved within the Antonine temple even as she was acculturated as Athena for those of Hellenic sympathies (p. 409). In his analysis of four southern Syria sanctuaries, Thomas Weber identifies that at Harran al-Awanid as focused on Cronos-El (p. 373), and Elise Friedland’s study of the visualisations of Athena/ Athena-Allat in the Roman Near East turns up a marvellous stele from Khanasser depicting Athena seated on a camel (p. 336, fig. 12)! Fergus Millar sees in the mosaics of the Near East a unique source conveying the use of several dominant languages and cultures of the region. Only in mosaics can

r e v i e w s | 385 Jewish, Christian and pagan institutions be examined in the same medium in contexts as diverse as Osrhoene, Sepphoris and Saint Catherine’s Monastery on Sinai (p. 225 ff.) The editors have accomplished the collection and presentation of vigorous thinking on a host of issues by the most distinguished scholars in the field. A welcome number of the essays are highly accessible, provocative and well served by figures and bibliography. Few readers will escape moments of illumination

provided throughout the volume by the curious voices of the Roman Near East: an inscription of first-century ce date on the paw of the guardian lion at the precinct in Palmyra declaring ‘May Allat bless whoever does not spill blood on the precinct’ (p. 408); the inscribed medallion wreathed in acanthus and proclaiming ‘Advance Ascalon! Advance Rome!’ (p. 501); and the cryptically ambivalent grafitto of one ‘Lauricius’ from Wadi Rum in Jordan (p. 508): ‘The Romans always win’. John Curran The Queen’s University of Belfast

Avi Avidov, Not Reckoned among Nations: The Origins of the So-called ‘Jewish Question’ in Antiquity (Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 128). Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, 2009. xii, 226 pp. €79.00. IS B N 978 3 16 150021 3. The subtitle of this important and stimulating study sets the agenda from the outset. For the author, the ‘Jewish Question’ has to do with participation and/or exclusion from the larger social context in which Jews have found themselves, often, especially since the European Enlightenment, giving rise to a virulent anti-Semitism. The author suspects that this is not just a modern phenomenon, but has its roots in the social and political world of Roman antiquity. To verify this claim he sets out to explore the notions of marginalization and integration as these applied in Roman social relations, with particular attention to the ways in which these categories are relevant to Jews. For him marginality in social terms refers to ‘segments of society, which for whatever reason are unable or unwilling to fully play out their expected roles within it’ (p. 3). Part I turns the spotlight on the first Jewish Revolt against Rome, particularly

the latter’s treatment of the Jews in its immediate aftermath. The destruction of the temple, the humiliation of the Jewish people and its national symbols in the triumphant celebrations, the vilification of Jewish beliefs and practices by various Roman writers, are all seen as contributing to a situation in which ‘hatred of the Jews is taken to be not just normative, but normal’ (p. 7). Full marginalization occurs when a certain minority is resigned to accepting this condition, aware that its primary reference group has lost out in a trial of strength with those controlling the larger ethos. In the Jewish case this resignation manifested itself variously, especially in the flight from history. A specifically Jewish historiography, the author claims, had begun to decline after the Babylonian exile, and while some Jewish authors adopted Hellenistic historiographic styles, including Josephus, no indigenous Jewish genre of history emerged, it is claimed (pp. 12–19).

r e v i e w s | 385 Jewish, Christian and pagan institutions be examined in the same medium in contexts as diverse as Osrhoene, Sepphoris and Saint Catherine’s Monastery on Sinai (p. 225 ff.) The editors have accomplished the collection and presentation of vigorous thinking on a host of issues by the most distinguished scholars in the field. A welcome number of the essays are highly accessible, provocative and well served by figures and bibliography. Few readers will escape moments of illumination

provided throughout the volume by the curious voices of the Roman Near East: an inscription of first-century ce date on the paw of the guardian lion at the precinct in Palmyra declaring ‘May Allat bless whoever does not spill blood on the precinct’ (p. 408); the inscribed medallion wreathed in acanthus and proclaiming ‘Advance Ascalon! Advance Rome!’ (p. 501); and the cryptically ambivalent grafitto of one ‘Lauricius’ from Wadi Rum in Jordan (p. 508): ‘The Romans always win’. John Curran The Queen’s University of Belfast

Avi Avidov, Not Reckoned among Nations: The Origins of the So-called ‘Jewish Question’ in Antiquity (Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 128). Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, 2009. xii, 226 pp. €79.00. IS B N 978 3 16 150021 3. The subtitle of this important and stimulating study sets the agenda from the outset. For the author, the ‘Jewish Question’ has to do with participation and/or exclusion from the larger social context in which Jews have found themselves, often, especially since the European Enlightenment, giving rise to a virulent anti-Semitism. The author suspects that this is not just a modern phenomenon, but has its roots in the social and political world of Roman antiquity. To verify this claim he sets out to explore the notions of marginalization and integration as these applied in Roman social relations, with particular attention to the ways in which these categories are relevant to Jews. For him marginality in social terms refers to ‘segments of society, which for whatever reason are unable or unwilling to fully play out their expected roles within it’ (p. 3). Part I turns the spotlight on the first Jewish Revolt against Rome, particularly

the latter’s treatment of the Jews in its immediate aftermath. The destruction of the temple, the humiliation of the Jewish people and its national symbols in the triumphant celebrations, the vilification of Jewish beliefs and practices by various Roman writers, are all seen as contributing to a situation in which ‘hatred of the Jews is taken to be not just normative, but normal’ (p. 7). Full marginalization occurs when a certain minority is resigned to accepting this condition, aware that its primary reference group has lost out in a trial of strength with those controlling the larger ethos. In the Jewish case this resignation manifested itself variously, especially in the flight from history. A specifically Jewish historiography, the author claims, had begun to decline after the Babylonian exile, and while some Jewish authors adopted Hellenistic historiographic styles, including Josephus, no indigenous Jewish genre of history emerged, it is claimed (pp. 12–19).

38 6 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s After having set out his case in this forthright manner, the author somewhat curiously it must be said, begins in Part II to expound the social scientific model of social integration and marginalization that he has been operating with. He is indeed aware that such theorising is in danger of imposing modern constructs onto the ancient world where they may not apply, given the expectation in the modern world of full participation for all which the Charter for Human Rights has generated. No such expectation applied in the ancient world (pp. 8–9, 40). Notwithstanding this caveat, the author develops various models of what he describes as ‘networks of mutual recognition’ in order to illustrate the different possibilities for integration and marginalization that can obtain in different social situations (p. 38). In subsequent chapters he does draw on these models occasionally, but in fairness not to the extent that they control his examination of the evidence, but rather to illustrate in modern terms what was in fact occurring in antiquity also (e.g. p. 114). My quibble at this point is not with his nuanced use of models, but rather with the impression that one gets from Part I already, namely, that his, by no means universally accepted reading of the evidence with regard to Rome’s intent, is in danger of determining in advance the direction and the results of the subsequent enquiry, especially in Part IV. Part III deals with the way in which Roman society was developing during the transition from Republic to Empire in terms of its growing perception of its own role and destiny on the world stage. According to Avidov, Rome had a very definite agenda from the outset, one that was not merely adapting or adopting

the tradition of Hellenistic kingship that it was replacing in the East, but rather developing in stages a whole new world, of which it, not Greece or the East would be the centre. The first stage of this expansion took the form of developing a network of amici and provinciae in the conquered, or otherwise controlled regions. The former were not just friends but expected to be allies also in terms of Rome’s advancement, whereas the provincial system involved Rome’s imperium or right to rule, receiving official sanction from the Roman senate, often involving a military presence as well. Avidov chooses the English term ‘Protectorate’ to translate the Latin patrocinium to describe this first stage of Rome’s advancement. Already these developments created marginalization at various levels as native elites are pushed to one side, land-ownership changes hands, and in some cases natives are forced to adopt banditry or other marginal modes of existence. The second stage of Rome’s advancement is described as a move from empire to integrated state, whereby in the words of Moses Finley ‘a unitary territorial state’ is established. This need not mean immediate cultural cohesion, but rather ‘the emergence of a society whose parts, including the centre and periphery are linked together in a mutually satisfying and complimentary way’ (p. 66). That Rome, which geographically and culturally was so peripheral for the Greek East and the Semitic world, should become the centre for both was indeed a remarkable reversal of political and cultural relations in the Mediterranean world, as these had been established over millennia. Avidov selects two distinctively Roman strategies for ensuring that an empire-wide integration

r e v i e w s | 38 7 could take place, namely, the patronage system as a means of maintaining social control, and emperor worship as providing a symbolic centre for all inhabitants of the realm, irrespective of social strata or cultural differences. At both stages of Rome’s development it can be shown that marginalization was a direct outcome of the growing centralisation and integration. As Avidov states, the deeper the integration of the empire’s society, ‘the stronger were the sources which pushed out those elements that did not fit into the pattern’ (p.99). It is in this context that the growing marginalization of the Jews is to be understood, as the argument is developed in the longest section of the book, Part IV (pp. 101–93). For anybody interested in Second Temple History, this is by far the most interesting part of the discussion. Not everybody will be convinced by Avidov’s reading of the evidence, yet there can be no doubt that the lens he has chosen, namely marginalization and integration in Roman society, provides a suggestive perspective on some of the internal conundrums of Judean history in the period. Judea’s relation with Rome, as this emerges in the mid-second century bce was that of belonging to a network whose centre was far removed, and which provided some support in the immediate struggle with the Seleucid regime. With the decline of this threat and the emergence of the Hasmonean state, Judea itself embarked on an internal expansion that aimed at an integrated society, not dissimilar to what Rome would seek to achieve. Inevitably that was to generate internal marginalization, as the emergence of the various sects in the period indicates. However, the

internecine strife between the sons of Alexander Yannai, allowed Rome to involve itself directly in Judean affairs. With the Roman administrative rearrangements enacted by Pompey and Gabinius, Jewish leaders were now expected to play a role as amici and zenoi, that is, ensuring that Rome’s interests were maintained and safeguarded. Unlike other territories where the native elite consisted mainly of landowners, in Judea the elite were based on their education and expertise in Jewish lore. This meant that their status with the natives was deeply compromised, being forced into relationships of friendship with the enemy, rather than representing their subjects’ interests as would be expected in a normal situation. But Judea was different, given the fact that the experiment of the Hasmonean state was still deemed to be a live option, and the institutions of patronage and emperor worship, the mechanisms whereby Rome had sought to achieve an integrated society, had no real purchase among the Judean populace, no matter how fragmented internally it had become. It is one of the strengths of this section of the study that Avidov’s analysis sheds important new light on the dilemmas facing the Jewish aristocracy as the open struggle with Rome loomed ever closer. We are fortunate that in the figure of Josephus, notwithstanding the self-promotion of his writings, we have a unique window on the tensions of the period for this class, and Avidov does well to explicate the inherent problems facing Judean society prior to the revolt. Throughout the study there is little explicit reference to Jews of the Diaspora. One wonders what light the issues under discussion, namely, integration and marginalization, might shed on the

38 8 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s situation of Jews in the different urban environments of Rome, Asia, Syria and Egypt. Does the claim of systemic marginalization by the all-conquering power of Rome hold good for these Jews also, given the fact that, as Claudius had written to the Jews of Alexandria, they were inhabitants of a city not their own? Our author does broach this topic in the final section of the book (pp. 163–91). However, the treatment is too synthetic to be fully convincing, failing as it does to take adequate account of variations of time and place, something the author himself is aware of (p. 168–9). Instead he approaches the issues under three general headings, religious freedom, civic status and dual loyalty. Somewhat predictably

the conclusion is that even when Jews in various parts of the Diaspora enjoy freedoms or experience tolerance from the centre, these are only symptomatic of the underlying problem of their continuing and growing marginalization. The conclusion is clear: ‘Social integration was the constitutive principle of Roman civilization and the ultimate source of its vitality and expansive thrust …. The very mechanisms of integration, both of imperial society as a whole and of its constituent population on the local level, were the very forces that pushed the Jews to its margins’ (p. 192). Not everybody will be wholly convinced by the definitiveness of the conclusion. Yet the case was well worth putting. Sean Freyne Trinity College, Dublin

Seth Schwartz, Were the Jews a Mediterranean Society? Reciprocity and Solidarity in Ancient Judaism. Princeton University Press, Princeton, 2010. x, 212 pp. $29.95. IS B N 978 0 691 14054 4. The ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question of Schwartz’s title implies a simplicity that belies the complexity of the issues with which he grapples in this provocative and erudite study. But Schwartz aims at nothing less than ‘the production of a precise and specific account’ of what he thinks ‘were politically and socially the most important elements in ancient Jewish culture’ (p. 7). To that end, he advocates a focus on Jewish ‘integration’ rather than ‘assimilation’ or ‘hellenization’, asking to what degree Jews were ‘“normal” inhabitants of the ancient Mediterranean world?’ (p. 5). Schwartz wants to set aside the ‘cultural inventory approach’ that in his estimation ‘flattens’ our understanding of Judaism: at its worst it deprives Jews of agency (‘they were acted on by outside influences, playing

no role in the formation of their own culture’), and in more nuanced versions it ignores the fact that Jewish cultural formation did not take place in a ‘social or political vacuum’ (p. 6). The shift from ‘hellenization’ to ‘integration’, Schwartz contends, allows a ‘correct emphasis on power, politics, and social relations, and those hitherto largely overlooked aspects of the culture of the Jews that bear most directly on them’ (p. 7). One ‘aspect of culture’ that affected Jews most directly was reciprocity as it had developed in the Mediterranean basin. Schwartz distinguishes between ethical reciprocity and institutionalized reciprocity – his concern being with the latter. Reciprocity of this sort ‘is thought to create and sustain enduring relationships of dependency, whether

38 8 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s situation of Jews in the different urban environments of Rome, Asia, Syria and Egypt. Does the claim of systemic marginalization by the all-conquering power of Rome hold good for these Jews also, given the fact that, as Claudius had written to the Jews of Alexandria, they were inhabitants of a city not their own? Our author does broach this topic in the final section of the book (pp. 163–91). However, the treatment is too synthetic to be fully convincing, failing as it does to take adequate account of variations of time and place, something the author himself is aware of (p. 168–9). Instead he approaches the issues under three general headings, religious freedom, civic status and dual loyalty. Somewhat predictably

the conclusion is that even when Jews in various parts of the Diaspora enjoy freedoms or experience tolerance from the centre, these are only symptomatic of the underlying problem of their continuing and growing marginalization. The conclusion is clear: ‘Social integration was the constitutive principle of Roman civilization and the ultimate source of its vitality and expansive thrust …. The very mechanisms of integration, both of imperial society as a whole and of its constituent population on the local level, were the very forces that pushed the Jews to its margins’ (p. 192). Not everybody will be wholly convinced by the definitiveness of the conclusion. Yet the case was well worth putting. Sean Freyne Trinity College, Dublin

Seth Schwartz, Were the Jews a Mediterranean Society? Reciprocity and Solidarity in Ancient Judaism. Princeton University Press, Princeton, 2010. x, 212 pp. $29.95. IS B N 978 0 691 14054 4. The ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question of Schwartz’s title implies a simplicity that belies the complexity of the issues with which he grapples in this provocative and erudite study. But Schwartz aims at nothing less than ‘the production of a precise and specific account’ of what he thinks ‘were politically and socially the most important elements in ancient Jewish culture’ (p. 7). To that end, he advocates a focus on Jewish ‘integration’ rather than ‘assimilation’ or ‘hellenization’, asking to what degree Jews were ‘“normal” inhabitants of the ancient Mediterranean world?’ (p. 5). Schwartz wants to set aside the ‘cultural inventory approach’ that in his estimation ‘flattens’ our understanding of Judaism: at its worst it deprives Jews of agency (‘they were acted on by outside influences, playing

no role in the formation of their own culture’), and in more nuanced versions it ignores the fact that Jewish cultural formation did not take place in a ‘social or political vacuum’ (p. 6). The shift from ‘hellenization’ to ‘integration’, Schwartz contends, allows a ‘correct emphasis on power, politics, and social relations, and those hitherto largely overlooked aspects of the culture of the Jews that bear most directly on them’ (p. 7). One ‘aspect of culture’ that affected Jews most directly was reciprocity as it had developed in the Mediterranean basin. Schwartz distinguishes between ethical reciprocity and institutionalized reciprocity – his concern being with the latter. Reciprocity of this sort ‘is thought to create and sustain enduring relationships of dependency, whether

r e v i e w s | 38 9 between individuals or between groups’ (p. 8). Such exchange does not have to be material, and it is ongoing. Moreover, inherent in this kind of exchange is a competitiveness that is potentially inegalitarian. While fundamental to many premodern communities, reciprocity-based organization – characterized by ‘densely overlapping networks of relationships of personal dependency constituted and sustained by reciprocal exchange’ (p. 14) and advocated by thinkers such as Aristotle and Seneca – is only one way to construct societies. A society, like that reflected in the Torah, might be founded on social relationships characterized by ‘corporate solidarity based on shared ideals’ (p. 15). Schwartz emphasizes that these systems are in significant tension but also that they are mutually dependent. The values of these systems may be in conflict, but in practice they need each other. Here is where one confronts a fundamental complication for answering the question of Schwartz’s title. As he tells the story, much of recent historiography and social anthropology of the Mediterranean has depended on a construct which might be called ‘mediterraneanism’ and describes Mediterranean cultures as ‘characterized by the pervasive importance of highly formalized institutions of reciprocal exchange’ (p. 21) along with the maintenance of honour, social deference and memorialization. Furthermore, mediterraneanism was thought to suffuse the entire Mediterranean basin, in almost all historical periods, and could be observed across all societies. Schwartz sides with those who see serious flaws with mediterraneanism as a description of the persistent and pervading culture

of a specific geographical zone. At the same time he regards mediterraneanism ‘as a Weberian ideal type, whose reallife manifestations were almost always diffuse, adulterated, partial’ (p. 30). As a heuristic device, mediterraneanism can offer a helpful way of conceptualizing how these practices connect with each other. Within this methodological framework Schwartz can ask his title’s question. The Torah, rather than reflecting a reciprocity-based system, promotes a solidarity-based system among its participants. In this way it is profoundly antithetical to systems based on reciprocal exchange. Schwartz’s basic question then becomes: ‘Given … both the conflict between ideals of reciprocity and solidarity and their mutual dependence in practice, how did the Jews, as adherents of a strongly antireciprocal normative system, cope with life in a world where institutionalized reciprocity was very hard indeed to escape?’ (p. 19). This ‘normative system’, based on the Torah, formed a Mediterranean counter-culture, which was utopian and rejected outright many of the norms of its neighbours. Since the Jews lived as a small nation, subject to foreign powers, reciprocal exchange must have acquired a patina of the normative, and they had no choice but to cope. They could withdraw in a sectarian manner (and, of course, some Jewish groups did); they could integrate fully into the dominant system; or they might find ways to accommodate (which almost all Jewish groups did) ‘to retain some sort of devotion to the normative Torah and also function effectively as social and economic agents’ (p. 32). Since the various elements of mediterraneanism were configured

39 0 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s differently in different historical periods and places, Schwartz examines three examples of Jewish accommodation: The Wisdom of Ben Sira, Josephus, and the Palestinian rabbis. In each case, Schwartz highlights how the features of the mediterraneanist construct operate. Ben Sira is very concerned with gift exchange, and according to Schwartz, he attempts to reconcile Torah piety with wisdom, a ‘hardheaded practicality about social relations’ (p. 48). He observes an ambivalent attitude toward gift exchange in Ben Sira. At times the sage rejects the notion of reciprocity (cf. 3.17–22) and at others he recognizes its inevitability in social relations, although he is cognizant of its dangers (cf. 20.13–16). As an accommodating measure, he attempts to merge gift exchange with the biblical injunctions to care for the poor (cf. 12.2–5). Thus, Ben Sira ‘is trying … to provide a Jewish, Torah-based justification for a set of social and cultural norms that in reality were radically at odds with the norms and ethos of the Torah’ (p. 78). For his part, Josephus operates in a Roman world that attempted to govern through co-opting ‘localized networks of social dependency’ (p. 34). In his works, Josephus does not fully reject the culture of Greco-Roman euergetism, but adapts it. Instead of setting up plastic and public monuments to memorialize benefactors and their benefactions, Jews memorialize in texts, and Josephus presents the biblical narratives as a memorialization of the benefactions and great acts of the nation’s founders. In his accommodating approach, he shifts the ground and argues that ‘true euergesia consists of generosity, niceness … ethnic solidarity, and the appearance or reputation of careful legal observance, especially perhaps,

the funding of sacrifices’ (p. 102–3). He thus merges benefaction with character: Herod was wicked and only bestowed benefactions on Greeks; his grandson Agrippa was kind and pious, bestowing favours on everyone, particularly the Jews. Like Ben Sira, Josephus integrates benefaction with relief of the poor, Queen Helena of Adiabene serving as a parade example. In this way, Josephus accommodates the mandates of Torah to the dominant culture of euergetism and memorialization. The Palestinian rabbis, however, who lived in a more irenic period with Rome, rejected Roman values explicitly. But even they, at the same time, internalized Roman values of honour and deference in their social worlds, and they were willing to exploit the euergetism of the local Jewish communities to fulfil the biblical command to aid the poor. Moreover, they embraced that same value within the master-disciple relationship in that the sage presented knowledge to his students who were expected to reciprocate, showing proper honour, deference and memorialization to the teacher. How, then, does Schwartz answer the question of his title? To the extent that Jews did not always fully reject Greco-Roman values of reciprocity, honour, deference and memorialization, whether explicitly or in practice, one could say, ‘yes’. To the extent that they accommodated to and adapted these values to fit a countercultural Torahbased anti-reciprocal piety, one might say, ‘no’. And this in-betweenness helps us understand some of the difficulties that Jews had integrating into the dominant social and cultural worlds in which these values were regnant. Schwartz makes a compelling case for his textual readings and the implications

r e v i e w s | 391 he derives from them. Ultimately, as he himself recognizes though, his hermeneutical approach to ancient texts, which are ‘not windows into the past but artifacts of it’ and need to be read ‘as expressions of sets of concerns or interests, because that is what they are’ (p. 175), is fully integrated with the historical arguments that he makes. His thesis, then, succeeds or fails as much on its methodological and hermeneutical foundations as on any reading of a specific text. Yet, his interpretations of specific texts in Sirach, for example, open up different ways of looking at passages with which I am so familiar as a scholar of the book. I also think, however, that by arguing for the Jewish response to the complex of values that make up mediterraneanism to represent ‘politically and socially the most important elements

in ancient Jewish culture’ Schwartz flirts with an essentialism that I find potentially problematic. I applaud Schwartz’s dismantling of a construct whose applications as normative have marginalized Jews as ‘abnormal’ in the Mediterranean world, and he has made a nuanced argument to overturn that view. To what degree, however, can Ben Sira, Josephus or the Palestinian rabbis be taken to represent ‘ancient Jewish culture’ in their own periods and places? Would we come to the same conclusions with a Qumran text like 4QInstruction or with other genres of Jewish literature, such as apocalyptic texts? As is characteristic of Schwartz’s scholarship, this book will prompt scholarly debate. I have learned much from it at the same time that it has raised questions with which I will wrestle long after having written this review. Benjamin G. Wright Lehigh University

Benjamin H. Hary, Translating Religion: Linguistic Analysis of Judeo-Arabic Sacred Texts from Egypt. Brill, Leiden, 2009. xxi, 360 pp. €130.00. IS B N 978 90 04 17382 8. Judaeo-Arabic in any of its historical stages offers an invaluable insight into Arabic language history and dialectology, and therefore linguistic works on all its written and spoken forms are most welcome by the scholarly community. In addition, whereas a considerable number of works on Classical Judaeo-Arabic have been published, investigations into Late Judaeo-Arabic are still sorely needed. Benjamin Hary is a pioneer in making Late Judaeo-Arabic works accessible, and his latest book is an adept philological study, which analyses Late Judaeo-Arabic linguistic forms, placing the variety into its social and cultural context, and detailing its place among Judaeolanguages in general.

The book examines Late Judaeo-Arabic Bible translations and commentaries, focussing in particular on the dilemma that their producers, the so-called šarḥanim, faced: the need to stay as truthful as possible to the original Hebrew text while remaining intelligible to those hearing and reading the texts. This dilemma is known to anyone who has ever translated from one language into the other, but it is exacerbated in the case of the šarḥanim, as the perceived holiness of the biblical language and connected religious ideals of how the holy works may be transmitted placed general constraints upon translations and commentaries of the biblical text. With well-chosen, comprehensible examples,

r e v i e w s | 391 he derives from them. Ultimately, as he himself recognizes though, his hermeneutical approach to ancient texts, which are ‘not windows into the past but artifacts of it’ and need to be read ‘as expressions of sets of concerns or interests, because that is what they are’ (p. 175), is fully integrated with the historical arguments that he makes. His thesis, then, succeeds or fails as much on its methodological and hermeneutical foundations as on any reading of a specific text. Yet, his interpretations of specific texts in Sirach, for example, open up different ways of looking at passages with which I am so familiar as a scholar of the book. I also think, however, that by arguing for the Jewish response to the complex of values that make up mediterraneanism to represent ‘politically and socially the most important elements

in ancient Jewish culture’ Schwartz flirts with an essentialism that I find potentially problematic. I applaud Schwartz’s dismantling of a construct whose applications as normative have marginalized Jews as ‘abnormal’ in the Mediterranean world, and he has made a nuanced argument to overturn that view. To what degree, however, can Ben Sira, Josephus or the Palestinian rabbis be taken to represent ‘ancient Jewish culture’ in their own periods and places? Would we come to the same conclusions with a Qumran text like 4QInstruction or with other genres of Jewish literature, such as apocalyptic texts? As is characteristic of Schwartz’s scholarship, this book will prompt scholarly debate. I have learned much from it at the same time that it has raised questions with which I will wrestle long after having written this review. Benjamin G. Wright Lehigh University

Benjamin H. Hary, Translating Religion: Linguistic Analysis of Judeo-Arabic Sacred Texts from Egypt. Brill, Leiden, 2009. xxi, 360 pp. €130.00. IS B N 978 90 04 17382 8. Judaeo-Arabic in any of its historical stages offers an invaluable insight into Arabic language history and dialectology, and therefore linguistic works on all its written and spoken forms are most welcome by the scholarly community. In addition, whereas a considerable number of works on Classical Judaeo-Arabic have been published, investigations into Late Judaeo-Arabic are still sorely needed. Benjamin Hary is a pioneer in making Late Judaeo-Arabic works accessible, and his latest book is an adept philological study, which analyses Late Judaeo-Arabic linguistic forms, placing the variety into its social and cultural context, and detailing its place among Judaeolanguages in general.

The book examines Late Judaeo-Arabic Bible translations and commentaries, focussing in particular on the dilemma that their producers, the so-called šarḥanim, faced: the need to stay as truthful as possible to the original Hebrew text while remaining intelligible to those hearing and reading the texts. This dilemma is known to anyone who has ever translated from one language into the other, but it is exacerbated in the case of the šarḥanim, as the perceived holiness of the biblical language and connected religious ideals of how the holy works may be transmitted placed general constraints upon translations and commentaries of the biblical text. With well-chosen, comprehensible examples,

39 2 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s Hary explains the techniques employed by the translators and the choices made in the course of their translations, illustrating how Hebrew forms influenced the language used in the Bible translation on all linguistic levels. Didactically, Hary’s work is exemplary. The content of every chapter is outlined in a short abstract in the introduction, and each individual chapter is preceded by several paragraphs summarising its content, rendering the book very accessible. Chapter 1 deals with the Jewish linguistic spectrum, and Hary offers his perspectives on general linguistic questions, such as the differences between languages and dialects, or what constitutes a Jewish language, as well as defining the linguistic terms he uses throughout the book. The complex problems surrounding Jewish varieties are discussed intelligently, while the presentation remains accessible to readers with a non-linguistic background. Included in this chapter is a list of ten features, which in Hary’s opinion characterize Jewish varieties: the use of Hebrew script, the use of differing orthographical traditions, the incorporation of Hebrew-Aramaic elements, unintelligibility of the spoken form to people outside of the community (although Hary points out the difficulty surrounding the ‘intelligibility’ of dialects and languages in the introduction on pp. 10–11), literature written by Jews for a Jewish readership, migrated or displaced dialectalism, preservation of archaic forms, the self-designation of speaking a different variety (‘our language’), and the unique literary genre of Bible translations. The first feature, the use of the Hebrew alphabet, represents the most

important criterium for scholars with a pragmatic approach. The definition of what constitutes, for example, Judaeo-German (i.e. German written with Hebrew characters, as opposed to Yiddish) has led to vast arguments among Yiddishists. A similar discussion is prevalent in the field of JudaeoArabic, where some scholars judge only Arabic texts specifically written by Jews for a Jewish audience as genuine Judaeo-Arabic, whereas others prefer to view anything written in Hebrew characters as Judaeo-Arabic material. As a linguist working on Judaeo-Arabic, I prefer this latter approach not only as the less problematic concept – avoiding some rather sensitive issues of race and religion – but also because it gives a clear definition based on an easily identifiable phenomenon. The seventh feature, the ‘preservation of archaic forms’ as typical for migration languages, is problematic. When migration languages are compared to their language of origin, archaic forms naturally stand out and are easily identifiable. When two varieties branch off from a common ancestor, however, both will innovate in some regards and keep archaic features in others. Therefore, the original language will also preserve archaic traits that are not preserved in its Jewish variety, and show innovations where the Jewish variety may keep an older form, and vice versa. For example, German dialects and standard varieties retain the preterite, which Yiddish replaces with an analytic form of the verb ‘have’ plus the participle, and they keep the Germanic non-aspectual verbal system, whereas Yiddish adopts verbal aspect through its contact with Slavonic. The tenth feature, the literary genre of Bible translations, may seem trivial

r e v i e w s | 393 but is in fact extremely important. The significance of the genre for the Jewish varieties can, for example, be seen in the way Saadiah’s Judaeo-Arabic Bible translation was instrumental in setting the standard of Classical Judaeo-Arabic orthography for centuries, and how Yiddish Bible translations shaped Yiddish syntax during the emergence of the language. Since Bible translations were read aloud, the reading traditions of biblical language shaped not only written forms but also to a certain degree the spoken varieties. Chapter 2 discusses the history of Judaeo-Arabic in particular, and examines its place within the framework of Jewish religiolects. Much thought is given to the ‘continuglossic’ nature of Judaeo-Arabic, and the description of its registers. Hary proposes a general periodization of Judaeo-Arabic into Pre-Islamic, Early, Classical, Later and Contemporary. While Early, Classical, Later and Contemporary designate literary periods, there is no written variety from the Pre-Islamic, and evidence about the spoken Jewish variety, the so-called al-Yahūdiyya, comes only from secondary sources. Particularly in the light of research by scholars such as Fred Astren, who has shown that quite a few of the anecdotes concerning Jews in the early Muslim period are probably later additions to the record, it would be useful to question the authenticity of these early accounts of al-Yahūdiyya, and consider the possibility that these may reflect the attitudes and sociolectal situation of a later period. Chapter 3 is concerned with the literary genre of Bible translations in Jewish languages, in particular with the history of those composed in JudaeoArabic, and focuses on the dilemma of

the šarḥan, forced to constantly choose between literal and interpretative translations. Supplied with many diagrams and examples, Hary’s writing makes it very easy for the reader to follow his argumentation. Chapter 4 will be of particular interest to dialectologists, since Hary shows what the translations reveal about the spoken language of the time. He deftly separates features of written registers of substandard Arabic from vernacular forms, and provides a comprehensive account of Egyptian Judaeo-Arabic dialectal phenomena, neatly separated into phonetic/phonological, morphological, syntactical and lexical features, with a good summary of features on pp. 134–6. Chapter 5 examines the use of pseudocorrections – many of which have undergone standardization – in the Bible translations and commentaries and in Judaeo-Arabic in general, and stresses the need to single them out as a means of distinguishing them from dialectal features. The chapter also deals with the Hebrew and Aramaic component in Judaeo-Arabic. Chapter 6 introduces the second part of the book, in which Hary applies his theoretical model to the Bible translations and explains phrase by phrase how the translations reveal the šarḥan’s thought processes, with a short excursus into calques. The following chapters present analyses of the specific linguistic levels, i.e. the phrase/word level, the morphosyntactic level and the segment level. Again, Hary’s skilful writing style makes it easy to follow his arguments and understand the considerations that passed through the šarḥan’s mind during the translation process. Hary's work expands our knowledge

39 4 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s of Late Judaeo-Arabic, even more so as he truly understands the intricacies of substandard registers, and the problems that arise from them. He also gives us an understanding of how the Bible translations, in particular through calques and the use of specific corresponding

translation pairs in Hebrew and JudaeoArabic, may have shaped the written (and possibly spoken) registers of Late Judaeo-Arabic. E.M. Wagner Genizah Unit, Cambridge University Library

Short notices Alexander Rofé, Introduction to the Literature of the Hebrew Bible. Translated from the Hebrew by Harvey N. Bock and Judith H. Seligmann. Simor, Jerusalem, 2009. xii, 660 pp. $77.00. IS B N 978 965 242 009 1. This fine English translation of Alexander Rofé’s seminal work is a welcome addition to the shelves of biblical libraries and scholars in the English-speaking world. By its own admission the book sets out to be an introduction not only to the Hebrew Bible itself, but also to the processes of biblical criticism and analysis (p. vii). By means of detailed and insightful analysis arising from his extensive knowledge of the texts, Rofé successfully highlights many of the complexities surrounding the composition of the biblical books. His study is unique in the fact that it draws on the work of many notable Jewish and Israeli scholars, making their ideas more accessible to the wider scholarly community. The book is divided into five major sections covering (in order): the historical literature, the Pentateuch, the prophetic literature, psalmody and the wisdom literature. Of these, the first two parts on historical books and Pentateuch warrant approximately 150 pages each and the sections on prophets, psalms and wisdom literature average approximately 100 pages each. The book ends with an

index of biblical passages and one of authors, but not a full bibliography. To give a feel for the scope of this work, let me cite some examples from the third section on prophetic literature. Rofé discusses key issues in the written prophets including the process of transmission, addition and expansion of prophetic words, the internal arrangement of prophetic books, types of prophetic speech, historical-literary criticism and the prophets and the rise of apocalyptic. Rather than making sweeping statements, he illustrates his observations by specific references and then selects one or two texts for more extensive comment, comparing, for example, the (roughly) contemporary prophets Isaiah ben Amoz and Hosea ben Beeri. He concludes that the prophetic literature is a fusion between the prophets’ own utterances and that of their disciples and that the careful reader can and should distinguish between the two. This more traditional approach to identifying original and additional material in prophetic texts will not sit so easily with those who advocate ‘final form’ readings. However, the observations upon which Rofé’s comments are based are perceptive and insightful, and add both depth and detail to the study of the Hebrew Bible. The comprehensive nature of this work and the wealth of detail contained

39 4 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s of Late Judaeo-Arabic, even more so as he truly understands the intricacies of substandard registers, and the problems that arise from them. He also gives us an understanding of how the Bible translations, in particular through calques and the use of specific corresponding

translation pairs in Hebrew and JudaeoArabic, may have shaped the written (and possibly spoken) registers of Late Judaeo-Arabic. E.M. Wagner Genizah Unit, Cambridge University Library

Short notices Alexander Rofé, Introduction to the Literature of the Hebrew Bible. Translated from the Hebrew by Harvey N. Bock and Judith H. Seligmann. Simor, Jerusalem, 2009. xii, 660 pp. $77.00. IS B N 978 965 242 009 1. This fine English translation of Alexander Rofé’s seminal work is a welcome addition to the shelves of biblical libraries and scholars in the English-speaking world. By its own admission the book sets out to be an introduction not only to the Hebrew Bible itself, but also to the processes of biblical criticism and analysis (p. vii). By means of detailed and insightful analysis arising from his extensive knowledge of the texts, Rofé successfully highlights many of the complexities surrounding the composition of the biblical books. His study is unique in the fact that it draws on the work of many notable Jewish and Israeli scholars, making their ideas more accessible to the wider scholarly community. The book is divided into five major sections covering (in order): the historical literature, the Pentateuch, the prophetic literature, psalmody and the wisdom literature. Of these, the first two parts on historical books and Pentateuch warrant approximately 150 pages each and the sections on prophets, psalms and wisdom literature average approximately 100 pages each. The book ends with an

index of biblical passages and one of authors, but not a full bibliography. To give a feel for the scope of this work, let me cite some examples from the third section on prophetic literature. Rofé discusses key issues in the written prophets including the process of transmission, addition and expansion of prophetic words, the internal arrangement of prophetic books, types of prophetic speech, historical-literary criticism and the prophets and the rise of apocalyptic. Rather than making sweeping statements, he illustrates his observations by specific references and then selects one or two texts for more extensive comment, comparing, for example, the (roughly) contemporary prophets Isaiah ben Amoz and Hosea ben Beeri. He concludes that the prophetic literature is a fusion between the prophets’ own utterances and that of their disciples and that the careful reader can and should distinguish between the two. This more traditional approach to identifying original and additional material in prophetic texts will not sit so easily with those who advocate ‘final form’ readings. However, the observations upon which Rofé’s comments are based are perceptive and insightful, and add both depth and detail to the study of the Hebrew Bible. The comprehensive nature of this work and the wealth of detail contained

r e v i e w s | 39 5 within its 600 plus pages will make it invaluable, both for students (especially when read alongside a standard introduction) and for those that teach them. Hilary Marlow University of Cambridge

Armin Lange, Handbuch der Textfunde vom Toten Meer. Band 1: Die Handschriften biblischer Bücher von Qumran und den anderen Fundorten. Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, 2009. xvi, 583 pp. €49.00. IS B N 978 3 16 149733 9. This, the first volume of a three part project, offers a comprehensive description and analysis of the ancient biblical manuscripts found at various sites in the Judean Desert. The author is well aware that the term ‘biblical’ is used here almost heuristically since part of the richness of this material is that it goes back to a period prior to the fully fledged formation of what was to become the Hebrew Bible. The Introduction briefly outlines the layout of the body of the Handbuch before offering an up-to-date review of scholarship and presenting the author’s own judicious synthesis and results based on the comprehensive research that underpins this volume. Here Lange confirms earlier analyses that locate the emerging dominance of a proto-masoretic textual tradition in the second half of the first century ce. In contrast to earlier scholarship (particularly the statistical analyses of Emanuel Tov) Lange advocates a further distinction within the ancient antecedents of the pre-masoretic textual tradition into proto-masoretic (manuscripts with differences from MT that amount in

total to less than 2%) and semi-masoretic (manuscripts with differences from MT that amount in total to more than 2%). He further introduces a new category of manuscripts that resemble a premasoretic tradition or a pre-Samaritan text in equal measure. These adjustments introduce further nuance into attempts to account for the multifaceted evidence in front of us. Lange is well aware that by continuing the practice of employing terminology derived from a late antique and mediaeval context is somewhat anachronistic and notes that scholars have not succeeded as yet in proposing credible alternatives in nomenclature and conceptualization. While this may be so, the one aspect where the otherwise extremely cautious approach championed here seems somewhat ill judged is the decision to retain the language of MT as norm (‘Maßstab’, p. 2) and differences from it as ‘Varianten’ (p. 11). Given that the evidence presented here so clearly leaves no doubt that pre-MT was not normative in the most substantive and ancient collection at Qumran, it would seem preferable to avoid language that implies a norm and variations from it, even if we retain the textual affiliations with what were to become Masoretic, Samaritan and Septuagint text types. The body of the Handbuch proceeds according to the arrangement of the Tanakh dividing the presentation into Pentateuch (pp. 33–183), Joshua (pp. 187–201), Judges (pp. 203–211), 1 Samuel – 2 Kings (pp. 213–247); overview over the text of the Deuteronomistic History (pp. 249–253), Isaiah (pp. 257–296), Jeremiah (pp. 297–324), Ezekiel (pp. 325–334), the Twelve (pp. 335–369), Psalms (pp. 373–450), Job including an excursus on 11QTargum of Job (pp. 451–466), Proverbs (pp. 467–471), Ruth (pp.

r e v i e w s | 39 5 within its 600 plus pages will make it invaluable, both for students (especially when read alongside a standard introduction) and for those that teach them. Hilary Marlow University of Cambridge

Armin Lange, Handbuch der Textfunde vom Toten Meer. Band 1: Die Handschriften biblischer Bücher von Qumran und den anderen Fundorten. Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, 2009. xvi, 583 pp. €49.00. IS B N 978 3 16 149733 9. This, the first volume of a three part project, offers a comprehensive description and analysis of the ancient biblical manuscripts found at various sites in the Judean Desert. The author is well aware that the term ‘biblical’ is used here almost heuristically since part of the richness of this material is that it goes back to a period prior to the fully fledged formation of what was to become the Hebrew Bible. The Introduction briefly outlines the layout of the body of the Handbuch before offering an up-to-date review of scholarship and presenting the author’s own judicious synthesis and results based on the comprehensive research that underpins this volume. Here Lange confirms earlier analyses that locate the emerging dominance of a proto-masoretic textual tradition in the second half of the first century ce. In contrast to earlier scholarship (particularly the statistical analyses of Emanuel Tov) Lange advocates a further distinction within the ancient antecedents of the pre-masoretic textual tradition into proto-masoretic (manuscripts with differences from MT that amount in

total to less than 2%) and semi-masoretic (manuscripts with differences from MT that amount in total to more than 2%). He further introduces a new category of manuscripts that resemble a premasoretic tradition or a pre-Samaritan text in equal measure. These adjustments introduce further nuance into attempts to account for the multifaceted evidence in front of us. Lange is well aware that by continuing the practice of employing terminology derived from a late antique and mediaeval context is somewhat anachronistic and notes that scholars have not succeeded as yet in proposing credible alternatives in nomenclature and conceptualization. While this may be so, the one aspect where the otherwise extremely cautious approach championed here seems somewhat ill judged is the decision to retain the language of MT as norm (‘Maßstab’, p. 2) and differences from it as ‘Varianten’ (p. 11). Given that the evidence presented here so clearly leaves no doubt that pre-MT was not normative in the most substantive and ancient collection at Qumran, it would seem preferable to avoid language that implies a norm and variations from it, even if we retain the textual affiliations with what were to become Masoretic, Samaritan and Septuagint text types. The body of the Handbuch proceeds according to the arrangement of the Tanakh dividing the presentation into Pentateuch (pp. 33–183), Joshua (pp. 187–201), Judges (pp. 203–211), 1 Samuel – 2 Kings (pp. 213–247); overview over the text of the Deuteronomistic History (pp. 249–253), Isaiah (pp. 257–296), Jeremiah (pp. 297–324), Ezekiel (pp. 325–334), the Twelve (pp. 335–369), Psalms (pp. 373–450), Job including an excursus on 11QTargum of Job (pp. 451–466), Proverbs (pp. 467–471), Ruth (pp.

39 6 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s 473–476), Song of Songs (pp. 477–481), Qohelet (pp. 483–487), Lamentations (pp. 489–495), Esther where the discussion is based not on ancient manuscripts of the book but their absence from Qumran (pp. 497–502), an excursus on the proposal put forward by Baillet and Tov that Qumran attests an early collection of megillot (pp. 503–504), Daniel (pp. 505–521), EzraNehemiah (pp. 523–526), and Chronicles (pp. 527–529). Each section comprises four elements. Lange first lists the preserved verses or remains of verses before offering a detailed description of the manuscripts (in smaller font and intended for a specialist readership), including analyses of orthographical characteristics and textual affiliation as well as references to scribal markings and presentation where these shed additional light on the manuscripts. This is followed by an outline of the textcritical significance of all the witnesses to the book in question, with references also to citations and allusions in non-biblical manuscripts from the Judean Desert. The volume closes with appendices listing all biblical passages attested in the manuscripts from the Judean Desert, a table identifying overlaps between different manuscripts and a list of all those places in the ancient manuscripts where the sequence of Psalms differs from the arrangement of MT. This volume is the result of many years of painstaking labour and offers an excellent introduction to the biblical manuscripts unearthed in the Judean desert. It may be hoped that an English translation will eventually appear and make this resource accessible to a much broader readership. Charlotte Hempel University of Birmingham

Hanne von Weissenberg, 4QMMT: Reevaluating the Text, the Function, and the Meaning of the Epilogue (Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah 82). Brill, Leiden, 2009. xii, 268 pp., appendix. €105.00. IS B N 978 90 04 17379 8. This revised Helsinki dissertation, written under the supervision of Raija Sollamo, investigates the last section of the scroll known as ‘Some Precepts of the Torah’ or 4QMMT. Hanne von Weissenberg begins with a history of scholarship, justifying what needs to be done by way of re-editing and studying the admonitions section. In the second chapter, she discusses briefly the calendar (which she does not believe was part of MMT) and middle halakhic section, but focuses on transcribing and commenting on the readings of 4Q397, 4Q398 and 4Q399 separately and together in a novel reconstruction. The care involved in this re-examination is to be commended, resulting in the correction of the official DJD X edition at several points. Weissenberg argues that the nine little fragments known as 4Q398 1–9 are probably unrelated to the seven other fragments (frs. 11–17) known by the same siglum 4Q398. She also moves 4Q398 11–13 to the beginning of the Epilogue on the grounds that the column width is broader. Finally, she sets lines 17–19 in two different, parallel literary editions, represented by 4Q397 and 4Q398. In the third chapter, Weissenberg re-examines the structure suggested by DJD X by comparing sections B and C of MMT. She notes grammatical, lexical and thematic differences between the two sections and argues that MMT is modelled on legal and treaty texts, the covenantal pattern (Bundesformular), and Deuteronomy in particular. She admits,

39 6 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s 473–476), Song of Songs (pp. 477–481), Qohelet (pp. 483–487), Lamentations (pp. 489–495), Esther where the discussion is based not on ancient manuscripts of the book but their absence from Qumran (pp. 497–502), an excursus on the proposal put forward by Baillet and Tov that Qumran attests an early collection of megillot (pp. 503–504), Daniel (pp. 505–521), EzraNehemiah (pp. 523–526), and Chronicles (pp. 527–529). Each section comprises four elements. Lange first lists the preserved verses or remains of verses before offering a detailed description of the manuscripts (in smaller font and intended for a specialist readership), including analyses of orthographical characteristics and textual affiliation as well as references to scribal markings and presentation where these shed additional light on the manuscripts. This is followed by an outline of the textcritical significance of all the witnesses to the book in question, with references also to citations and allusions in non-biblical manuscripts from the Judean Desert. The volume closes with appendices listing all biblical passages attested in the manuscripts from the Judean Desert, a table identifying overlaps between different manuscripts and a list of all those places in the ancient manuscripts where the sequence of Psalms differs from the arrangement of MT. This volume is the result of many years of painstaking labour and offers an excellent introduction to the biblical manuscripts unearthed in the Judean desert. It may be hoped that an English translation will eventually appear and make this resource accessible to a much broader readership. Charlotte Hempel University of Birmingham

Hanne von Weissenberg, 4QMMT: Reevaluating the Text, the Function, and the Meaning of the Epilogue (Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah 82). Brill, Leiden, 2009. xii, 268 pp., appendix. €105.00. IS B N 978 90 04 17379 8. This revised Helsinki dissertation, written under the supervision of Raija Sollamo, investigates the last section of the scroll known as ‘Some Precepts of the Torah’ or 4QMMT. Hanne von Weissenberg begins with a history of scholarship, justifying what needs to be done by way of re-editing and studying the admonitions section. In the second chapter, she discusses briefly the calendar (which she does not believe was part of MMT) and middle halakhic section, but focuses on transcribing and commenting on the readings of 4Q397, 4Q398 and 4Q399 separately and together in a novel reconstruction. The care involved in this re-examination is to be commended, resulting in the correction of the official DJD X edition at several points. Weissenberg argues that the nine little fragments known as 4Q398 1–9 are probably unrelated to the seven other fragments (frs. 11–17) known by the same siglum 4Q398. She also moves 4Q398 11–13 to the beginning of the Epilogue on the grounds that the column width is broader. Finally, she sets lines 17–19 in two different, parallel literary editions, represented by 4Q397 and 4Q398. In the third chapter, Weissenberg re-examines the structure suggested by DJD X by comparing sections B and C of MMT. She notes grammatical, lexical and thematic differences between the two sections and argues that MMT is modelled on legal and treaty texts, the covenantal pattern (Bundesformular), and Deuteronomy in particular. She admits,

r e v i e w s | 39 7 however, that the pattern was adapted freely to suit a new literary composition and that Deuteronomy does not account satisfactorily for the dramatis personae. The fourth chapter is devoted to the question of genre: Weissenberg describes MMT as a mixed form of various genres. She discusses Adolf Deissmann's classic distinction between ‘letter’ and ‘literary epistle’ in Jewish and non-Jewish sources and argues that the only stylistic feature that links MMT to the letter genre is the use of direct speech, which is also used in other genres. She therefore recommends that the title of ‘Halakhic Letter’ be abandoned, but without suggesting an alternative. One would have to suppose that for her MMT is sui generis. The penultimate chapter examines the Epilogue's use of scripture. Methodologically informed, Weissenberg discusses each of the sections as to its use or absence of scriptural citation, its comparison to other sectarian texts, especially S and D, and its use of biblical texts, especially Deuteronomy. She asserts that the key clause, ‘we have separated from the multitude of the people’, is no evidence for a thoroughgoing schism, but reflects minor disagreements over points of legal observance. On the issue of canon, she follows Katell Berthelot and Émile Puech in interpreting the notice as a reference to three different corpora without specifying what she herself means. One sure result, however, is that the ‘fragmentary reading of MS 4Q398 contains no evidence to a tripartite canon’ (p. 206). Finally, she suggests that MMT is a list of the opinions of the community that differed from other groups, drawn up for the pedagogical benefit of new members of the community and the strengthening of community identity. A final chapter draws her results into a

convenient few pages, and an appendix of her own composite text is included as an insert for ready reference. One major issue that Weissenberg does not address is the retention of the title for the final section. If MMT is a work of mixed genre, then in what sense is this section an ‘Epilogue’? This is, nonetheless, a fine study of MMT that has all the hallmarks of careful supervision and examination, attention to detail, and methodological sophistication. I recommend it. Timothy Lim University of Edinburgh

Eugene Ulrich and Peter W. Flint (eds), with a contribution by Martin G. Abegg, Jr, Qumran Cave 1. I: The Isaiah Scrolls. Part 1: Plates and Transcriptions. Part 2: Introductions, Commentary, and Textual Variants (Discoveries in the Judaean Desert XXXII). Clarendon Press, Oxford, 2010. xviii pp., 74 plates/viii, 260 pp. £100.00/£80.00. IS B N 978 0 19 956666 2 / IS B N 978 0 19 956667 9. The republication of the two Isaiah scrolls found in Qumran Cave 1 in 1947 reminds one of the Gospel prophecy, ‘The first will be last’ (Matt. 19:30). The great Isaiah A Scroll, containing the facsimile of the manuscript and a facing transcription, headed in 1950 the release by the American Schools of Oriental Research of the original Qumran finds and was followed in 1954 by the Hebrew University’s fragmentary Isaiah B, posthumously issued by Eleazar L. Sukenik. We had to wait 60 years for the critical edition of the two manuscripts to appear. It constitutes the last installment of the 40-volume DJD series.

r e v i e w s | 39 7 however, that the pattern was adapted freely to suit a new literary composition and that Deuteronomy does not account satisfactorily for the dramatis personae. The fourth chapter is devoted to the question of genre: Weissenberg describes MMT as a mixed form of various genres. She discusses Adolf Deissmann's classic distinction between ‘letter’ and ‘literary epistle’ in Jewish and non-Jewish sources and argues that the only stylistic feature that links MMT to the letter genre is the use of direct speech, which is also used in other genres. She therefore recommends that the title of ‘Halakhic Letter’ be abandoned, but without suggesting an alternative. One would have to suppose that for her MMT is sui generis. The penultimate chapter examines the Epilogue's use of scripture. Methodologically informed, Weissenberg discusses each of the sections as to its use or absence of scriptural citation, its comparison to other sectarian texts, especially S and D, and its use of biblical texts, especially Deuteronomy. She asserts that the key clause, ‘we have separated from the multitude of the people’, is no evidence for a thoroughgoing schism, but reflects minor disagreements over points of legal observance. On the issue of canon, she follows Katell Berthelot and Émile Puech in interpreting the notice as a reference to three different corpora without specifying what she herself means. One sure result, however, is that the ‘fragmentary reading of MS 4Q398 contains no evidence to a tripartite canon’ (p. 206). Finally, she suggests that MMT is a list of the opinions of the community that differed from other groups, drawn up for the pedagogical benefit of new members of the community and the strengthening of community identity. A final chapter draws her results into a

convenient few pages, and an appendix of her own composite text is included as an insert for ready reference. One major issue that Weissenberg does not address is the retention of the title for the final section. If MMT is a work of mixed genre, then in what sense is this section an ‘Epilogue’? This is, nonetheless, a fine study of MMT that has all the hallmarks of careful supervision and examination, attention to detail, and methodological sophistication. I recommend it. Timothy Lim University of Edinburgh

Eugene Ulrich and Peter W. Flint (eds), with a contribution by Martin G. Abegg, Jr, Qumran Cave 1. I: The Isaiah Scrolls. Part 1: Plates and Transcriptions. Part 2: Introductions, Commentary, and Textual Variants (Discoveries in the Judaean Desert XXXII). Clarendon Press, Oxford, 2010. xviii pp., 74 plates/viii, 260 pp. £100.00/£80.00. IS B N 978 0 19 956666 2 / IS B N 978 0 19 956667 9. The republication of the two Isaiah scrolls found in Qumran Cave 1 in 1947 reminds one of the Gospel prophecy, ‘The first will be last’ (Matt. 19:30). The great Isaiah A Scroll, containing the facsimile of the manuscript and a facing transcription, headed in 1950 the release by the American Schools of Oriental Research of the original Qumran finds and was followed in 1954 by the Hebrew University’s fragmentary Isaiah B, posthumously issued by Eleazar L. Sukenik. We had to wait 60 years for the critical edition of the two manuscripts to appear. It constitutes the last installment of the 40-volume DJD series.

39 8 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s For this reviewer, they bring back memories of exciting days of long ago. I recall the extraordinary excitement I felt in 1948 when staring at a photograph of the great Isaiah manuscript, representing chapter 40 of the biblical book. I made my first ‘discovery’ noticing in verse 12 the reading me yam (waters of the sea) instead of the traditional mayim (waters). This variant is duly listed in Part II, p. 160. It was then that I fell in love with Qumran. I also remember with admiration the brilliant idea of Gonzague Ryckmans, my professor of Hebrew at the University of Louvain, who in 1951, instead of relying on the Kittel-Kahle Biblia Hebraica, prepared his lectures and made us study the set chapters of Isaiah from the Qumran Isaiah A scroll. Those were intoxicating days of youth full of hope and enthusiasm anticipating a lifetime of gratifying labour. Turning to the two volumes by Eugene Ulrich and Peter Flint, dated from 2010 but actually published in January 2011, the photographs are unquestionably an improvement on the 1950 edition and there are also occasional ameliorations in the decipherment of the text. The main fresh contribution by the editors relates, however, to textual criticism and the analysis of the Hebrew of the scroll. They have received substantial assistance from Martin Abegg, who added a comprehensive linguistic analysis to the editorial work. Particularly valuable are the lists of textual variants to both Isaiah scrolls in Part II, pp. 119–93 and 235–53. Finally heartfelt congratulations are due to the editor-in-chief of the Scrolls project, Emanuel Tov, for his diplomacy and heroism that enabled him to complete this monumental enterprise. It took twenty years for his team to produce 32

volumes as against the 37 years spent by the de Vaux-Benoit-Strugnell regime on editing the first eight instalments of DJD. Well done, Emanuel. Geza Vermes Wolfson College, Oxford

Craig A. Evans (ed.), The Routledge Encyclopedia of the Historical Jesus. Routledge, New York/London, 2010. xix, 728 pp. £40.00 pb. IS B N 978 0 415 88088 6. The phrase ‘the historical Jesus’ is associated in most minds with Albert Schweitzer’s epoch-making book, The Quest of the Historical Jesus, first published in 1906. The expression is due not to Schweitzer, whose German work appeared under the less attractive title, Von Reimarus zu Wrede: Eine Geschichte der Leben-Jesu-Forschung (From Reimarus to Wrede: A History of the Research into the Life of Jesus), but to his English translator. William Montgomery decided to swap the subtitle for the title and transformed it to our familiar Quest of (or for) the Historical Jesus. By using the word ‘quest’, Montgomery introduced an element of equivocation. Whereas Schweitzer’s title was clearly historical, ‘quest’ implied a religious search for a Jesus to be worshiped. The confusion continued in the more recent terminology, which refers to a ‘First Quest’, ending with Schweitzer, followed by a questionable ‘No-Quest period’, roughly from 1920 to 1950, when the historical approach to the Gospels and Jesus became taboo in Germany, the main field of New Testament research, under the dominating influence of the great Neutestamentler Rudolf Bultmann.

39 8 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s For this reviewer, they bring back memories of exciting days of long ago. I recall the extraordinary excitement I felt in 1948 when staring at a photograph of the great Isaiah manuscript, representing chapter 40 of the biblical book. I made my first ‘discovery’ noticing in verse 12 the reading me yam (waters of the sea) instead of the traditional mayim (waters). This variant is duly listed in Part II, p. 160. It was then that I fell in love with Qumran. I also remember with admiration the brilliant idea of Gonzague Ryckmans, my professor of Hebrew at the University of Louvain, who in 1951, instead of relying on the Kittel-Kahle Biblia Hebraica, prepared his lectures and made us study the set chapters of Isaiah from the Qumran Isaiah A scroll. Those were intoxicating days of youth full of hope and enthusiasm anticipating a lifetime of gratifying labour. Turning to the two volumes by Eugene Ulrich and Peter Flint, dated from 2010 but actually published in January 2011, the photographs are unquestionably an improvement on the 1950 edition and there are also occasional ameliorations in the decipherment of the text. The main fresh contribution by the editors relates, however, to textual criticism and the analysis of the Hebrew of the scroll. They have received substantial assistance from Martin Abegg, who added a comprehensive linguistic analysis to the editorial work. Particularly valuable are the lists of textual variants to both Isaiah scrolls in Part II, pp. 119–93 and 235–53. Finally heartfelt congratulations are due to the editor-in-chief of the Scrolls project, Emanuel Tov, for his diplomacy and heroism that enabled him to complete this monumental enterprise. It took twenty years for his team to produce 32

volumes as against the 37 years spent by the de Vaux-Benoit-Strugnell regime on editing the first eight instalments of DJD. Well done, Emanuel. Geza Vermes Wolfson College, Oxford

Craig A. Evans (ed.), The Routledge Encyclopedia of the Historical Jesus. Routledge, New York/London, 2010. xix, 728 pp. £40.00 pb. IS B N 978 0 415 88088 6. The phrase ‘the historical Jesus’ is associated in most minds with Albert Schweitzer’s epoch-making book, The Quest of the Historical Jesus, first published in 1906. The expression is due not to Schweitzer, whose German work appeared under the less attractive title, Von Reimarus zu Wrede: Eine Geschichte der Leben-Jesu-Forschung (From Reimarus to Wrede: A History of the Research into the Life of Jesus), but to his English translator. William Montgomery decided to swap the subtitle for the title and transformed it to our familiar Quest of (or for) the Historical Jesus. By using the word ‘quest’, Montgomery introduced an element of equivocation. Whereas Schweitzer’s title was clearly historical, ‘quest’ implied a religious search for a Jesus to be worshiped. The confusion continued in the more recent terminology, which refers to a ‘First Quest’, ending with Schweitzer, followed by a questionable ‘No-Quest period’, roughly from 1920 to 1950, when the historical approach to the Gospels and Jesus became taboo in Germany, the main field of New Testament research, under the dominating influence of the great Neutestamentler Rudolf Bultmann.

r e v i e w s | 39 9 A precarious ‘Second Quest’ was timidly relaunched in the 1950s by some Bultmann students, only to be overtaken from the 1970s by a largely AngloAmerican so-called ‘Third or New Quest’, conducted by historians rather than by theologians. The historical Jesus research has been repeatedly declared dead, but it has always refused to lie down and 104 years after Schweitzer’s original funeral oration led to the production of the massive tome, which is now under review. The Encyclopedia, edited by the Canadian New Testament specialist Craig A. Evans, is an enterprise intended to cover all the aspects of the historical Jesus topic. It comprises 227 entries authored by an international team of 110 mostly trans-Atlantic scholars. Indeed, 87 out of 110 come from the USA or Canada. A group of this size unavoidably constitutes a mixed bunch. Among the 110 authors, I have counted only 12 well-known or known names. Most of the others are theological college professors unheard-of by me, but this is probably due to my lack of familiarity with religious journals. The two leading contributors are the editor Craig Evans of Acadia Divinity College in Nova Scotia and Bruce Chilton of Bard College in New York State. Evans is no doubt intentionally the signatory of ‘Abiathar’ and ‘Wright, N.T.’ the first and the last entry of the volume. At the end of his Introduction he assures his readers that their ‘understanding of the historical Jesus will be greatly enriched through the reading of this encyclopedia’ (p. viii). The 227 articles cover all the important theoretical issues and concepts of the historical Jesus field as well as methodology and criteria of authenticity. The languages possibly spoken by

Jesus (Aramaic, Hebrew, Greek) are discussed together with the possibility of recovering the ipsissima verba of Jesus and establishing the authenticity of the various sayings. The four Gospels are examined in separate articles and the relevant non-New Testament literature (Dead Sea Scrolls, Apocrypha, Pseudepigrapha, Targums, papyri, etc.) is also fully surveyed. There is an entry on the subject of the ‘Rewritten Scripture’ signed by the editor, but he fails to inform his readers how this concept first appeared on the academic map. The teaching and the titles of Jesus form another essential section of the Encyclopedia, including a well-conceived presentation of the ‘Son of Man’ problem. A further class of entries concerns events in the life of Jesus and individuals playing important roles in the Gospel story, both New Testament figures like the mother of Jesus, Mary Magdalene and the apostles, and historical personalities such as Herod Antipas, Pontius Pilate, the high priests Annas and Caiaphas, and the Jewish groups of Pharisees and Sadducees. Prospective users of the Encyclopedia will find a reasonably satisfactory answer to most of their queries as well as many useful bibliographies attached to the various articles. As a final comment, I ought to mention that the volume treats in separate articles 28 scholars described as ‘major contributors’ to the historical Jesus theme. All the great German names of the past are there: Hermann Samuel Reimarus, David Friedrich Strauss, Johannes Weiss, William Wrede, Albert Schweitzer, Rudolf Bultmann, Joachim Jeremias, followed by T.W. Manson and C.H. Dodd on the British side. I have counted six selected scholars who are alive, one German, two Americans and

400 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es three British, but with the exception of James Dunn, emeritus professor of Durham and author of a highly recommendable entry on the notion of ‘Son of God’, for reasons known only to the editor none of them figures among the contributors to this lexicon. Geza Vermes Wolfson College, Oxford

Basile Lourié, Andrei Orlov and Madeleine Petit (eds), L’église des deux Alliances: Mémorial Annie Jaubert (1912–1980) Gorgias, Piscataway, NJ, 2008. 239 pp. (French and English) €99.00. IS B N 978 1 59333 083 5. This volume offers a reprint of ‘Mémorial Annie Jaubert’, which was published in the periodical Xristianskij Vostock, New Series 4 (10) (2002): 359–550. Jaubert is best known for her work on a 364-day solar calendar that she argued existed in the Bible, the Book of Jubilees, and the Synoptic Gospels. Her theory, which divides scholars, argues that the Fourth Gospel followed a different, the lunar-solar calendar, thereby apparently accounting for the variance in the days of the week of the Passion between the Synoptics and John. When the 364-day liturgical calendrical scheme was found to match some of the priestly courses in the Dead Sea Scrolls, her theory became a key reference point in Qumran calendar scholarship. This collection of articles in her memory has been republished due to the relative inaccessibility of the journal and the fact that there were printing errors in the original. Unfortunately, although the first problem has been resolved by the publication of this volume, some papers are replete with typographical mistakes

to the extent that several contributions are almost ruined by them, and the compilation has no unified style. Although this Memorial cannot be recommended until revised properly, a summary is owed to its contributors and potential readers. There are nine articles presented in the alphabetical order of the authors’ names; these follow Jaubert’s bibliography by Madeleine Petit and a career assessment by Basile Lourié. The papers are presented here thematically, rather than in the order in which they appear in the volume. There are three articles on understudied post-biblical literary works where there is an intersection between Jewish and Christian authorship and redaction; these would have undoubtedly interested Jaubert. Francis I. Andersen’s article ‘The Sun in 2 Enoch’, an engaging intertextual analysis of some cosmological aspects of 2 Enoch 14–15 (Slavonic Enoch), opens the main section (note the typo of ‘364-day’ lunar year, which should read ‘354-day’, p. 4). It segues well with the next article, Richard Bauckham’s ‘The Horarium of Adam and the Chronology of the Passion’, an analysis of a ‘neglected Jewish text about the hours of the night and day’. He dates this text to the Second Temple Period. Tragically, there are numerous typos in this article, and Bauckham’s name is misspelt in the Table of Contents, on the title page of his own paper, and on the publisher’s website (accessed 12 March 2011). The penultimate paper in the volume, by Andrei Orlov, is a fascinating text-critical comparison between some Qumran fragments, principally 4Q504 and 4Q374, and the Christian Macarian homilies. Two papers examine early Church writings. Gilles Dorival discusses discrepant Patristic commentaries on

400 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es three British, but with the exception of James Dunn, emeritus professor of Durham and author of a highly recommendable entry on the notion of ‘Son of God’, for reasons known only to the editor none of them figures among the contributors to this lexicon. Geza Vermes Wolfson College, Oxford

Basile Lourié, Andrei Orlov and Madeleine Petit (eds), L’église des deux Alliances: Mémorial Annie Jaubert (1912–1980) Gorgias, Piscataway, NJ, 2008. 239 pp. (French and English) €99.00. IS B N 978 1 59333 083 5. This volume offers a reprint of ‘Mémorial Annie Jaubert’, which was published in the periodical Xristianskij Vostock, New Series 4 (10) (2002): 359–550. Jaubert is best known for her work on a 364-day solar calendar that she argued existed in the Bible, the Book of Jubilees, and the Synoptic Gospels. Her theory, which divides scholars, argues that the Fourth Gospel followed a different, the lunar-solar calendar, thereby apparently accounting for the variance in the days of the week of the Passion between the Synoptics and John. When the 364-day liturgical calendrical scheme was found to match some of the priestly courses in the Dead Sea Scrolls, her theory became a key reference point in Qumran calendar scholarship. This collection of articles in her memory has been republished due to the relative inaccessibility of the journal and the fact that there were printing errors in the original. Unfortunately, although the first problem has been resolved by the publication of this volume, some papers are replete with typographical mistakes

to the extent that several contributions are almost ruined by them, and the compilation has no unified style. Although this Memorial cannot be recommended until revised properly, a summary is owed to its contributors and potential readers. There are nine articles presented in the alphabetical order of the authors’ names; these follow Jaubert’s bibliography by Madeleine Petit and a career assessment by Basile Lourié. The papers are presented here thematically, rather than in the order in which they appear in the volume. There are three articles on understudied post-biblical literary works where there is an intersection between Jewish and Christian authorship and redaction; these would have undoubtedly interested Jaubert. Francis I. Andersen’s article ‘The Sun in 2 Enoch’, an engaging intertextual analysis of some cosmological aspects of 2 Enoch 14–15 (Slavonic Enoch), opens the main section (note the typo of ‘364-day’ lunar year, which should read ‘354-day’, p. 4). It segues well with the next article, Richard Bauckham’s ‘The Horarium of Adam and the Chronology of the Passion’, an analysis of a ‘neglected Jewish text about the hours of the night and day’. He dates this text to the Second Temple Period. Tragically, there are numerous typos in this article, and Bauckham’s name is misspelt in the Table of Contents, on the title page of his own paper, and on the publisher’s website (accessed 12 March 2011). The penultimate paper in the volume, by Andrei Orlov, is a fascinating text-critical comparison between some Qumran fragments, principally 4Q504 and 4Q374, and the Christian Macarian homilies. Two papers examine early Church writings. Gilles Dorival discusses discrepant Patristic commentaries on

r e v i e w s | 4 01 parallel NT narratives (‘Un seul ou deux hommes riches?’) and Michel van Esbrœck (now deceased), argues that the 364-day calendar can be retrieved in a late fifth-century ce Patristic text (‘L’année réguliere de 364 jours dans la controverse au sujet de Chalcédoine’). The evaluations of Jaubert’s extensive thesis on the 364-day calendar vary in their focus. Roger T. Beckwith summarizes the case for accepting that the 364-day liturgical calendar may have been used in several biblical books, with the exception of Esther and Tobit (‘The significance of the 364-day calendar for the Old Testament canon’). Three scholars challenge Jaubert’s well-known solution to the different dates of the Last Supper. In ‘Les quatre jours “de l’intervalle”: une modification néotestamentaire et chrétienne du calendrier de 364 jours’, Basil Lourié advances a new calendrical explanation for the anomalous chronologies of the Passion in the NT. Walter D. Ray further analyses Jaubert’s thesis in ‘The Use of Evidence from Patristic and Liturgical Sources in Annie Jaubert’s “The Date of the Last Supper”’, and, using different textual sources, he reaches other conclusions. Finally, James C. VanderKam’s critical reassessment of her work, ‘Jaubert’s Solution to the Passion Chronology’, is so coruscating that it is surprising to find it in her Memorial. Aside from the serious question as to whether it is appropriate to honour Jaubert by reassessing her contribution yet again, the most pressing problem is the editing: letters are missing, words have fallen out, and there are sentences that do not begin with capital letters. Very sad. Helen R. Jacobus University of Manchester

Mark Andrew Brighton, The Sicarii in Josephus’s Judean War: Rhetorical Analysis and Historical Observations (SBL – Early Judaism and Its Literature 27). Brill, Leiden, 2009. xiv, 186 pp. €95.00. IS B N 978 90 04 16920 3. Brighton presents a literary and historical analysis of the label ‘Sicarii’ and the group associated with it. Chapter 1 offers a concise survey of previous scholarship. Chapter 2 deals with the date, unity, themes and intended audience of the main source, Josephus’ Judean War. Chapter 3 gives a literary analysis of every passage where the Sicarii are mentioned (or their presence can be surmised from the context) by focusing upon literary context, acts of the Sicarii, key words and narrative function. Chapter 4 is devoted to War 7, culminating in the Massada suicide and the executions in Egypt and Cyrene. Chapter 5 offers historical conclusions about the label and the identity of the group. The Sicarii acquired their name, which refers to the small dagger (sica) used to kill opponents, from the Romans. Brighton argues that Josephus applies this label also as a springboard for elaborating major themes like banditry and rival war. Brighton concludes, contrary to what several other scholars argue, that War 2.254-257 is the first passage about the Sicarii and not 2.117-118 (about Judas the Galilean and Fourth Philosophy). The family relationship between Judas and Eleazar ben Yair according to War 7.253-254 does not necessarily imply a connection with the Sicarii. Neither does Brighton see a connection between the Sicarii and the Zealots (against Schürer and Hengel, and with Zeitlin and Morton Smith). The Sicarii retire from Jerusalem to Masada before the Zealots are

r e v i e w s | 4 01 parallel NT narratives (‘Un seul ou deux hommes riches?’) and Michel van Esbrœck (now deceased), argues that the 364-day calendar can be retrieved in a late fifth-century ce Patristic text (‘L’année réguliere de 364 jours dans la controverse au sujet de Chalcédoine’). The evaluations of Jaubert’s extensive thesis on the 364-day calendar vary in their focus. Roger T. Beckwith summarizes the case for accepting that the 364-day liturgical calendar may have been used in several biblical books, with the exception of Esther and Tobit (‘The significance of the 364-day calendar for the Old Testament canon’). Three scholars challenge Jaubert’s well-known solution to the different dates of the Last Supper. In ‘Les quatre jours “de l’intervalle”: une modification néotestamentaire et chrétienne du calendrier de 364 jours’, Basil Lourié advances a new calendrical explanation for the anomalous chronologies of the Passion in the NT. Walter D. Ray further analyses Jaubert’s thesis in ‘The Use of Evidence from Patristic and Liturgical Sources in Annie Jaubert’s “The Date of the Last Supper”’, and, using different textual sources, he reaches other conclusions. Finally, James C. VanderKam’s critical reassessment of her work, ‘Jaubert’s Solution to the Passion Chronology’, is so coruscating that it is surprising to find it in her Memorial. Aside from the serious question as to whether it is appropriate to honour Jaubert by reassessing her contribution yet again, the most pressing problem is the editing: letters are missing, words have fallen out, and there are sentences that do not begin with capital letters. Very sad. Helen R. Jacobus University of Manchester

Mark Andrew Brighton, The Sicarii in Josephus’s Judean War: Rhetorical Analysis and Historical Observations (SBL – Early Judaism and Its Literature 27). Brill, Leiden, 2009. xiv, 186 pp. €95.00. IS B N 978 90 04 16920 3. Brighton presents a literary and historical analysis of the label ‘Sicarii’ and the group associated with it. Chapter 1 offers a concise survey of previous scholarship. Chapter 2 deals with the date, unity, themes and intended audience of the main source, Josephus’ Judean War. Chapter 3 gives a literary analysis of every passage where the Sicarii are mentioned (or their presence can be surmised from the context) by focusing upon literary context, acts of the Sicarii, key words and narrative function. Chapter 4 is devoted to War 7, culminating in the Massada suicide and the executions in Egypt and Cyrene. Chapter 5 offers historical conclusions about the label and the identity of the group. The Sicarii acquired their name, which refers to the small dagger (sica) used to kill opponents, from the Romans. Brighton argues that Josephus applies this label also as a springboard for elaborating major themes like banditry and rival war. Brighton concludes, contrary to what several other scholars argue, that War 2.254-257 is the first passage about the Sicarii and not 2.117-118 (about Judas the Galilean and Fourth Philosophy). The family relationship between Judas and Eleazar ben Yair according to War 7.253-254 does not necessarily imply a connection with the Sicarii. Neither does Brighton see a connection between the Sicarii and the Zealots (against Schürer and Hengel, and with Zeitlin and Morton Smith). The Sicarii retire from Jerusalem to Masada before the Zealots are

402 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es mentioned (War 2.254-255), and Josephus calls them ‘a different form of bandits’ in 2.254. Their deeds, robbery and murder, may overlap with those of other bandits, but they distinguish themselves from these others by their choice to fight only against Jewish opponents. Typical for the Sicarii is also their strict refusal to acknowledge anyone as lord except God. Brighton’s argument is sound and in most cases persuasive. Especially important is his analysis of book 7, interpreted as an integral part of the Judean War. Brighton argues convincingly that the Masada suicide and the torture and execution of the Sicarii in Egypt and the Cyrenaica round off the internal war theme (stasis) that is so prominent in the War from the prologue onward. The Masada suicide functions as appropriate divine punishment for the murdering of fellow Jews. It is a noble death because of its bravery and robs the Romans of their victory. A few times Brighton, perhaps, overstates his case. War 2.408 implies, for example, that the Sicarii killed Roman guards when they captured Masada. The Maccabean martyrdoms and Razis’s suicide help to articulate Josephus’ depiction of the Masada suicide and the executions in book 7 as noble deaths, but explicit references to these noble deaths as atonement in Josephus seem to be absent (cf. pp. 118, 137). This is a most welcome contribution for Josephus specialists and everybody working on the First Revolt. Jan Willem van Henten Universiteit van Amsterdam

Filip Vukosavović (ed.), Angels and Demons: Jewish Magic Through the Ages. Bible Lands Museum, Jerusalem, 2010. 192 pp. $39.00. IS B N 978 965 7027 21 7.

The recent upsurge in interest in magic in general, and Jewish magic in particular, has led to a marked proliferation of publications in various related fields: religious studies, anthropology, folklore, history and philology. The riches that have lain dormant for decades in libraries, museums and private collections are now being examined from various perspectives by scholars, while the hundreds of new sources that have become available in recent years are in various stages of preparation for publication. The body of unpublished materials considerably outweighs that which has already been published, and the programmatic statements that may be found in several recent books and articles indicate that in the coming years, we are going to witnesses a considerable growth in the number of monographs and textpublications in this field. A glimpse of the untold riches that Jewish magic texts have to offer both scholars and the general public may be found in the remarkable exhibition that was on display at the Bible Lands Museum in Jerusalem last year. The exhibition has attracted such attention from the general public that its period of display has been considerably extended. For those unable to make the trip to Jerusalem, the accompanying catalogue, edited by the exhibition’s curator, Dr Filip Vukosavović, provides an excellent impression of the material on display; for those fortunate enough to have attended the exhibition, it furnishes a lasting visual record of many of the more striking items, and also provides valuable explanations and suggestions for further reading. Like the exhibition itself, the catalogue adopts an inclusive approach to Jewish magic, recognising it as a

402 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es mentioned (War 2.254-255), and Josephus calls them ‘a different form of bandits’ in 2.254. Their deeds, robbery and murder, may overlap with those of other bandits, but they distinguish themselves from these others by their choice to fight only against Jewish opponents. Typical for the Sicarii is also their strict refusal to acknowledge anyone as lord except God. Brighton’s argument is sound and in most cases persuasive. Especially important is his analysis of book 7, interpreted as an integral part of the Judean War. Brighton argues convincingly that the Masada suicide and the torture and execution of the Sicarii in Egypt and the Cyrenaica round off the internal war theme (stasis) that is so prominent in the War from the prologue onward. The Masada suicide functions as appropriate divine punishment for the murdering of fellow Jews. It is a noble death because of its bravery and robs the Romans of their victory. A few times Brighton, perhaps, overstates his case. War 2.408 implies, for example, that the Sicarii killed Roman guards when they captured Masada. The Maccabean martyrdoms and Razis’s suicide help to articulate Josephus’ depiction of the Masada suicide and the executions in book 7 as noble deaths, but explicit references to these noble deaths as atonement in Josephus seem to be absent (cf. pp. 118, 137). This is a most welcome contribution for Josephus specialists and everybody working on the First Revolt. Jan Willem van Henten Universiteit van Amsterdam

Filip Vukosavović (ed.), Angels and Demons: Jewish Magic Through the Ages. Bible Lands Museum, Jerusalem, 2010. 192 pp. $39.00. IS B N 978 965 7027 21 7.

The recent upsurge in interest in magic in general, and Jewish magic in particular, has led to a marked proliferation of publications in various related fields: religious studies, anthropology, folklore, history and philology. The riches that have lain dormant for decades in libraries, museums and private collections are now being examined from various perspectives by scholars, while the hundreds of new sources that have become available in recent years are in various stages of preparation for publication. The body of unpublished materials considerably outweighs that which has already been published, and the programmatic statements that may be found in several recent books and articles indicate that in the coming years, we are going to witnesses a considerable growth in the number of monographs and textpublications in this field. A glimpse of the untold riches that Jewish magic texts have to offer both scholars and the general public may be found in the remarkable exhibition that was on display at the Bible Lands Museum in Jerusalem last year. The exhibition has attracted such attention from the general public that its period of display has been considerably extended. For those unable to make the trip to Jerusalem, the accompanying catalogue, edited by the exhibition’s curator, Dr Filip Vukosavović, provides an excellent impression of the material on display; for those fortunate enough to have attended the exhibition, it furnishes a lasting visual record of many of the more striking items, and also provides valuable explanations and suggestions for further reading. Like the exhibition itself, the catalogue adopts an inclusive approach to Jewish magic, recognising it as a

r ev i ews | 403 phenomenon with a long history which has not yet (and will probably never) come to an end. Accordingly, the exhibits extend chronologically from curses inscribed in limestone from the eighth century bce through to cheap protective items produced from plastic and synthetic yarn sold in the twenty-first century. The later items are afforded the same treatment and respect as the more ancient ones; ‘antiquity’ is not mistaken for ‘authenticity’. The catalogue is divided into two parts, one containing historical surveys, the other arranged according to topics, and is illustrated throughout with high-quality colour pictures of the items that accurately represent the impressive visual effect of the exhibition, though inevitably something is lost when the larger items are reduced to a small page size. Both the historical presentations and the material arranged by topics are accompanied by short essays written by leading experts in the field of Jewish magic. Three generations of scholars are represented amongst the essay-writers. Alongside senior scholars – Shaul Shaked (on Aramaic magic bowls), Moshe Idel (the Middle Ages), Shalom Sabar (modern amulets and the Khamsa), and Mark Geller (black magic and Lilith) – we find the next generation of established researchers whose names will be familiar to readers in the field: Gideon Bohak (First and Second Temple periods), Yuval Harari (practical Kabbalah in Israel), and Dan Levene (inscribed skulls). Informative chapters have also been provided by Ortal-Paz Saar (Palestinian late antiquity and the Byzantine period; magic in the Cairo genizah) and Na’ama Vilozny (magic art), both of whom are

promising newcomers to the field, whose unpublished doctorates were completed in recent years. The essays provide brief summaries of the current state of research in the various fields. The high quality of the written text notwithstanding, it is the images that leave the strongest impression. As a philologist whose interest in Jewish magic texts some 19 years ago was initially sparked by their potential contribution to Aramaic dialectology, the present reviewer was particularly struck by the outstanding visual richness of the later texts, which are generally of lesser value for linguistic study. In addition to the aesthetic beauty of the colourful items – an aspect that is lacking in the early amulets and magic bowls – many of the later items contain stunning depictions of imaginary figures. An art-historical study of these images is a project waiting to be undertaken. In short, this is an unusually rewarding catalogue. It brings into the public domain a wide selection of Jewish magic artefacts that have previously been unknown even to many scholars working in the field, and provides rich visual evidence for the diversity of material in this often-despised area of Jewish religious practice. The written text supplements and contextualizes the artefacts, and provides an up-to-date orientation on the various topics. Filip Vukosavović is to be congratulated on gathering together such a fine representation of Jewish magical artefacts through the ages, and such an expert team of scholars to contextualize and explain them. matthew morgenstern University of Haifa

j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s   |   v o l .   l x i 1   |   n o .   2   |   a u t u m n 2 011

Books received

Adelman, Rachel, The Return of The Repressed: Pirqe de-Rabbi Eliezer and the Pseudepigrapha. Brill, Leiden, 2009. viii, 352 pp. $179.00/€121.00. IS B N 978 90 04 17409 0. Amanat, Mehrdad, Jewish Identities in Iran: Resistance and Conversion to Islam and the Baha’i Faith. I.B. Tauris, London, 2011. xi, 279 pp. $92.00. IS B N 978 1 84511 891 4. Appelbaum, Alan, The Rabbis’ KingParables: Midrash From the ThirdCentury Roman Empire. Gorgias Press, Piscataway, NJ, 2010. x, 341 pp. $166.00. IS B N 978 1 61719 159 6. Arbel, Daphna, J.R.C. Cousland and Dietmar Neufeld, And So They Went Out: The Lives of Adam and Eve as Cultural Transformative Story. T&T Clark, London, 2010. xvi, 189 pp. £60.00. IS B N 978 0 567 02679 8. Assaf, David, and Ada Rapoport-Albert (eds), Let the Old Make Way for the New: Studies in the Social and Cultural History of Easern European Jewry, Presented to Immanuel Etkes. 2 vols. The Zalman Shazar Center for Jewish History, Jerusalem, 2009. 747 pp. (English and Hebrew) 163.10 NIS. IS B N 978 965 227 257 7. Attridge, Harold W., Essays on John and Hebrews. Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, 2010. xi, 443 pp. €129.00. IS B N 978 3 16 150319 1. Bailly, Danielle (ed.), The Hidden Children of France, 1940-1945: Stories of Survival. Trans. Betty Becker-Theye. Foreword by Pierre Vidal-Naquet. State University of New York Press, Albany, NY, 2010. xxiii, 381 pp. $19.95. IS B N 978 1 4384 3196 3. Balakirsky-Katz, Maya, The Visual

Culture of Chabad. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2010. xi, 244 pp. $95.00/£65.00. IS B N 978 0 521 19163 0. Barnes, Timothy D., Early Christian Hagiography and Roman History. Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, 2010. xx, 437 pp. €24.00. IS B N 978 3 16 150256 9. Baskin, Judith R., and Kenneth Seeskin (eds), The Cambrige Guide to Jewish History, Religion, and Culture. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2010. xv, 539 pp. $39.99/£19.99. IS B N 978 0 521 86960 7. Baumgarten, Albert, Jeremy Cohen and Ezra Mendelsohn (eds), Remembering and Forgetting: Israeli Historians Look at the Jewish Past. The Historical Society of Israel, Jerusalem, 2009 (= Zion 74, 2009). xxiii, 409 pp. (Hebrew) IS B N 978 965 227 255 3. Becker, Ernest, The Denial of Death. Souvenir Press Ltd, London, 2011. xvi, 314 pp. £14.99. IS B N 978 0 285 63897 6. Berthelot, K., and Th. Legrand (eds), La Bibliothèque de Qumrân, 2: Torah - Exode - Lévitique - Nombres. Les Éditions du Cerf, Paris, 2010. xxxii, 456 pp. €68.00. IS B N 978 2 204 08773  4. Bishop Moore, Megan, and Brad E. Kelle, Biblical History and Israel’s Past: The Changing Study of the Bible and History. Eerdmans, Grand Rapids, MI, 2011. xviii, 518 pp. $46.00/£30.99. IS B N 978 0 8028 6260 0. Blenkinsopp, Joseph, Creation, UnCreation, Re-Creation: A Discursive Commentary on Genesis 1-11. T&T Clark, London, 2011. viii, 214 pp. £17.99. IS B N 978 0 567 59101 2.

books r ecei v ed | 405 Borgeaud, Phillipe, Thomas Römer and Youri Volokhine (eds), Interprétations de Moïse: Égypte, Judée, Grèce et Rome. Contribution by Daniel Barbu. Brill, Leiden, 2010. xiv, 303 pp. $154.00/104.00 €. IS B N 978 90 04 17953 0. Boss, Jeffrey, Human Consciousness of God in the Book of Jacob: A Theological and Psychological Commentary. T&T Clark, London, 2010. viii, 289 pp. £40.00. IS B N 978-0-567-25389-7. Boustan, Ra’anan S., Oren Kosansky and Marina Rustow (eds), Jewish Studies at the Crossroads of Anthropology and History: Authority, Diaspora, Tradition. University of Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia, 2011. x, 431 pp. $69.95/£45.50. IS B N 978 0 8122 4303 1. Broadhead, Edwin K., Jewish Ways of Following Jesus: Redrawing the Religious Map of Antiquity. Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, 2010. xix, 440 pp. €129.00. IS B N 978 3 16 150304 7. Caballero-Navas, Carmen, and Esperanza Alfonso (eds), Late Medieval Jewish Identities: Iberia and Beyond. Palgrave Macmillan, New York, 2010. xii, 306 pp. £55.00. IS B N 978 0 230 60833 7. Carlebach, Elisheva, Places of Time: Jewish Calendar and Culture in Early Modern Europe. Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA, 2011. xii, 292 pp. £25.95. IS B N 978 0 674 05254 3. Chare, Nicholas, Auschwitz and Afterimages: Abjection, Witnessing and Representation. I.B. Tauris, London, 2011. xvi, 194 pp. £17.99. IS B N 978 1 84885 590 8. Cohn, Yehudah B., Tangled Up in Text: Tefillin and the Ancient World. Brown University Press, Providence, RI, 2008. vii, 202 pp. $32.95. IS B N 978 1 930675 56 8. Collins, John J., and Daniel C. Harlow (eds), The Eerdmans Dictionary of Early Judaism. Eerdmans, Grand Rapids, MI, 2010. 1397 pp. $95.00/£62.99. IS B N 978

0 8028 2549-0. Collins, John J., The Scepter and the Star: Messianism in Light of the Dead Sea Scrolls, Second Edition. Eerdmans, Grand Rapids, MI, 2010. xi, 298 pp. $28.00. IS B N 978 0 8028 3223 8. Cotton, Hannah M., Leah Di Segni, Werner Eck, Benjamin Isaac, Alla Kushnir-Stein, Haggai Misgav, Jonathan Price, Israel Roll and Ada Yardini (eds), Corpus Inscriptionum Iudaeae/Palaestinae, volume 1: Jerusalem, Part 1:1-704. Contributions by Eran Lupu with the assistance of Marfa Heimbach and Naomi Schneider. De Gruyter, Berlin and New York, 2010. xii, 694 pp. €129.95. IS B N 978 3 11 022219 7. Davies, Philip R., On the Origins of Judaism. Equinox, London, 2011. viii, 173 pp. £16.99. IS B N 978 1 84553 325 0. De Troyer, Kristin, and Armin Lange (eds), Prophecy After the Prophets: The Contribution of the Dead Sea Scrolls to the Understanding of Biblical and ExtraBiblical Prophacy. Assistance of Lucas L. Schulte. Peeters, Leuven, 2009. xiv, 242 pp. $61.00. IS B N 978 90 429 2135 1. Dekel, Mikhal, The Universal Jew: Masculinity, Modernity and the Zionist Moment. Northwestern University Press, Evanston, IL, 2010. ix, 267 pp. $29.95. IS B N 978 0 8101 2717 3. Dekel-Chen, Jonathan, David Gaunt, Nathan M. Meir and Israel Bartal (eds), Anti-Jewish Violence: Rethinking the Pogram in European History. Indiana University Press, Bloomington, IN, 2011. xvi, 220 pp. £34.95, IS B N 978 0 253 35520 1. Eisen, Robert, The Peace and Violence of Judaism: From the Bible to Modern Zionism. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2011. 304 pp. £18.99. IS B N 978 0 19 975147 1. Engel, David, Facing the Volcano: Historians of the Jews and the Holocaust.

406 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es The Zalman Shazar Centre for Jewish History, Jerusalem, 2009. 298 pp. (Hebrew) 87.40 NIS. IS B N 978-965-227-261-4. Fassberg, Steven E., The Jewish NeoAramaic Dialect of Challa. Brill, Leiden, 2010. xiv, 370 pp. $179.00/€126.00. IS B N 978 90 04 17682 9. Feiner, Shmuel, The Origins of Jewish Secularization in Eighteenth Century Europe. Trans. Chaya Naor. University of Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia, 2010. xvi, 330 pp. $65.00. IS B N 978 0 8122 4273 7. Fishman, Talya, Becoming the People of the Talmud: Oral Torah as Written Tradition in Medieval Jewish Cultures. University of Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia, 2011. 413 pp. $65.00/£42.50. IS B N 978 0 8122 4313 0. Fleischacker, Samuel (ed.), Divine Teaching and the Way of the World. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2011. x, 559 pp. £60.00. IS B N 978 0 19 921736 6. Frankel, David, The Land of Canaan and the Destiny of Israel: Theologies of Territory in the Hebrew Bible. Eisenbrauns, Winona Lake, IN, 2011. ix, 443 pp. $49.50. IS B N 978 1 57506 202 0. Frankel, Jonathan, and Ezra Mendelsohn (eds), The Protestant-Jewish Conundrum: Studies in Contemporary Jewry, An Annual, XXIV. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2010. ix, 295 pp. $55.00. IS B N 978 0 19 974264 6. Franklin, Ruth, A Thousand Darknesses: Lies and Truth in Holocaust Fiction. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2011. 304 pp. £18.99. IS B N 978 0 19 531396 3. Gambetti, Sandra, The Alexandrian Riots of 38 C.E. And the Persecution of the Jews: A Historical Reconstruction. Brill, Leiden, 2009. vii, 336 pp. $169.00. IS B N 978 90 04 13846 9. Glazer, Aubrey L., A New Physiognomy of Jewish Thinking: Critical Theory After Adorna as Applied to Jewish Thought.

Continuum, London, 2011. xvi, 208 pp. £65.00. IS B N 978 1 4411 3398 4. Golani, Motti, The British Mandate for Palestine, 1948: War and Evacuation. The Zalman Shazar Centre for Jewish History, Jerusalem, 2009. 280 pp. (Hebrew) 136.00 NIS. IS B N 978 965 227 251 5. Goldstein, Jossi (ed.), Yosef Da’at: Studies in Modern Jewish History in Honor of Yosef Salmon. Ben-Gurion University of the Negev Press, Beer-Sheva, 2010. 427 pp. (Hebrew), 36 pp. (English). $30.61. IS B N 978 965 536 030 1. Goodman, Martin, and Philip Alexander (eds), Rabbinic Texts and the History of Late-Roman Palestine. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2011. xi, 419 pp. £70.00. IS B N 978 0 19 726474 4. Gottlieb, Michah, Faith and Freedom: Moses Mendelssohn’s Theological-Political Thought. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2011. 209 pp. £35.00. IS B N 978 0 19 539894 6. Grabbe, Lester L., An Introduction to Second Temple Judaism: History and Religion of the Jews in the Time of Nehemiah, the Maccabees, Hillel and Jesus. T&T Clark, London, 2010. xiii, 150 pp. £16.99. IS B N 978 0 567 05161 5. Greble, Emily, Sarajevo, 1941-1945: Muslims, Christians, and Jews in Hitler’s Europe. Cornell University Press, Ithaca, NY, 2011. 276 pp. $35.00/£22.95. IS B N 978 0 8014 4921 5. Green, Deborah A., The Aroma of Righteousness: Scent and Seduction in Rabbinic Life and Literature. The Pennsylvania State University Press, University Park, PA, 2011. xiv, 286 pp. $69.95. IS B N 978 0 271 03767 7. Grossman, Avraham, and Sara Japhet (eds), Rashi: The Man and His Work. The Zalman Shazar Centre for Jewish History, Jerusalem, 2008. 485 pp. (Hebrew). 240.00 NIS. IS B N 978 965 227 248 5. Gruen, Erich S., Rethinking the Other in Antiquity. Princeton University Press,

books r eceived | 407 Princeton, 2011. 416 pp. £27.95. IS B N 978 0 691 14852 6. Gunneweg, Jan, Annemie Adriaens and Joris Dik (eds), Holistic Qumran: Trans-Disciplinary Research of Qumran and the Dead Sea Scrolls. Brill, Leiden, 2010. 119 pp. $132.00. IS B N 978 90 04 18152 6. Halbertal, Moshe, Maimonides, The Zalman Shazar Center, Jerusalem, 2009. 319 pp. (Hebrew) 81.50 NIS. IS B N 978 965 227 254 6. Hanegraaff, Wouter J., and Jeffrey J. Kripal (eds), Hidden Intercourse: Eros and Sexuality in the History of Western Esotericism. Fordham University Press, New York, 2011. xxii, 544 pp. $37.00. IS B N 978 0 8232 3341 0. Harkins, Franklin T. (ed.), Transforming Relations: Essays on Jews and Christians Throughout History. University of Notre-Dame Press, Notre Dame, IN, 2010. xxv, 476 pp. $50.00. IS B N 978 0 268 03090 2. Harlow, Daniel C., Karina Martin Hogan, Matthew Goff and Joel S. Kaminsky (eds), The ‘Other’ in Second Temple Judaism: Essays in Honor of John J. Collins. Eerdmans, Grand Rapids, MI, 2011. xxxix, 502 pp. $65.00/£43.99. IS B N 978 0 8028 6625 7. Hartman, Geoffrey, The Third Pillar: Essays in Judaic Studies. University of Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia, 2011. viii, 233 pp. $39.95/£26.00. IS B N 978 0 8122 4316 1. Hayes, Christine, The Emergence of Judaism: Classical Traditions in Contemporary Perspective. Fortress Press, Minneapolis, MN, 2011. xvi, 183 pp. $28.00. IS B N 978 0 8006 9749 5. Hayes, Peter, John K. and Roth (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Holocaust Studies. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2010. xiii, 776 pp. £85.00. IS B N 978 0 19 921186 9. Hezser, Catherine (ed.), Jewish Daily Life in Roman Palestine. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2010. xvii, 687 pp.

£85.00. IS B N 978 0 19 921643 7. Hidary, Richard, Dispute for the Sake of Heaven: Legal Pluralism in the Talmud. Brown Judaic Studies, Providence, RI, 2010. 441 pp. $65.95. IS B N 978 1 930675 77 3. Hurtado, Larry W., and Paul L. Owen (eds), ‘Who is this Son of Man?’ The Latest Scholarship on a Puzzling Expression of the Historical Jesus. T&T Clark, London, 2011. xiii, 191 pp. $130.00. IS B N 978 0 567 52119 4. Huss, Boas (ed.), Kabbalah and Contemporary Spiritual Revival. BenGurion University of the Negev Press, Beer-Sheva, 2011. 373 pp. $48.00. IS B N 978 965 536 043 1. Iancu-Agou, Danièle (ed.), Les Juifs Méditerranéens au Moyen Âge: Culture et Prosopographie. Contribution by Élie Nicholas. Les Éditions du Cerf, Paris, 2010. 248 pp. €34.00. IS B N 978 2 204 09040 7. Jacobs, Jonathan, Law, Reason, and Morality in Medieval Jewish Philosophy. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2010. xii, 232 pp. £50.00. IS B N 978 0 19 954283 3. Jaffé, Dan (ed.), Studies in Rabbinic Judaism and Early Christianity: Text and Context. Brill, Leiden, 2010. xiii, 248 pp. $146.00/€103.00. IS B N 978 90 04 18410 7. Japhet, Sara, and Eran Viezel (eds), ‘To Settle the Plain Meaning of the Verse’: Studies in Biblical Exegesis. The Bialik Institute, Jerusalem, 2011. 345 pp. (Hebrew). 136.00 NIS. IS B N 978 965 536 045 5. Jelen, Sheila E., Michael P. Kramer and L. Scott Lerner (eds), Modern Jewish Literatures: Intersections and Boundaries. University of Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia, 2011. viii, 360 pp. $59.95/£39.00. IS B N 978 0 8122 4272 0. Jordan, James, Tony Kushner and Sarah Pearce (eds), Jewish Journies: From Philo to Hip Hop. Vallentine Mitchell, London, 2010. 384 pp. £45.00. IS B N

408 | jou r na l of j ew ish stu di es 978 0 85303 962 4. Kadari, Adiel, Studies in Repentance: Law, Philosophy and Educational Thought in Maimonides’ Hilkhot Teshuvah. BenGurion University of the Negev Press, Beer-Sheva, 2010. 297 pp. (Hebrew) 112.00 NIS. IS B N 978 965 536 006 6. Kahn-Harris, Keith, and Ben Gidley, Turbulent Times: The British Jewish Community Today. Continuum, London, 2010. 237 pp. £19.99. IS B N 978 1 8470 6316 8. Kampen, John, Wisdom Literature. Eerdmans, Grand Rapids, MI, 2011. xiii, 390 pp. $36.00/£23.99. IS B N 978 0 8028 4384 5. Kaplan, Marion A., and Deborah Dash Moore (eds), Gender and Jewish History. Indiana University Press, Bloomington, IN, 2011. 416 pp. $80.00. IS B N 978 0 253 35561 4. Karp, Jonathan, and Adam Sutcliffe (eds), Philosemitism in History. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2011. viii, 349 pp. $26.99/£16.99. IS B N 978 0 521 87377 2. Klug, Brian, Being Jewish and Doing Justice: Bringing Argument to Life. Vallentine Mitchell, London, 2011. xviii, 379 pp. £40.00. IS B N 978 0 85303 973 0. Knittel, K.N., Seeing Mahler: Music and the Language of Antisemitism in Fin-de-Siècle Vienna. Ashgate, Farnham, 2010. 201 pp. £55.00. IS B N 978 0 7546 6372 0. Koskenniemi, Erkki, and Pekka Lindqvist (eds), Studies in Rewritten Bible 3: Rewritten Biblical Figures. Eisenbrauns, Winona Lake, IN, 2010. vii, 310 pp. €35.00. IS B N 978 952 12 2453 9. Kotzin, Daniel P., Judah L. Magnes: An American Jewish Nonconformist. Syracuse University Press, New York, 2010. xii, 472 pp. $49.95. IS B N 978 0 8156 3216 0. Kraemer, Ross Shepard, Unreliable Witnesses: Religion, Gender, and History in the Greco-Roman Mediterranean. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2011. xv, 322 pp. £45.00. IS B N 978 0 19 974318 6.

Kraft, Robert Alan, Exploring the Scripturesque: Jewish Texts and their Christian Contexts. Brill, Leiden, 2009. ix, 313 pp. $147.00/€99.00. IS B N 978 90 04 17010 0. Lang, Bernhard (ed.), International Review of Biblical Studies 56 (2009–10). Brill, Leiden, 2011. xviii, 564 pp. $216.00. IS B N 978 90 04 20179 8. Lederhendler, E.I. (eds), Ethnicity and Beyond: Theories and Dilemmas of Jewish Group Demarcation. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2011. 240 pp. £35.00. IS B N 978 0 19 979349 5. Levenson, Jon D., Abraham Between Torah and the Gospel. Marquette University Press, Milwaukee, WI, 2011. 80 pp. $15.00. IS B N 978-0-87462-592-9. Levine, Aaron (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Judaism and Ecomonics. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2010. xxiii, 690 pp. £85.00. IS B N 978 0 19 539862 5. Levinson, Bernard M., Legal Revision and Religious Renewal in Ancient Israel. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2010. xxvi, 206 pp. $27.99/£18.99. IS B N 978 0 521 51344 9. Lieberman, Julia R. (ed.), Sephardi Family Life in the Early Modern Diaspora. Brandeis University Press, Waltham, MA, 2011. 304 pp. $29.95. IS B N 978 1 58465 957 0. Lindbeck, Kristen H., Elijah and the Rabbis: Story and Theology. Columbia University Press, New York, 2010. xxi, 241 pp. $82.50/£57.00. IS B N 978 0 231 13080 6. Lipschits, Oded, Gary N. Knoppers and Manfred Oeming (eds), Judah and the Judaens in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context. Eisenbrauns, Winona Lake, IN, 2011. xvi, 600 pp. $64.50. IS B N 978 1 57506 197 9. Lipsett, B. Diane, Desiring Conversion: Hermas, Thecla, Aseneth. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2011. 190 pp. £45.00. IS B N 978 0 19 975451 9.

books r eceived | 409 Loader, William, The Pseudepigrapha on Sexuality: Attitudes towards Sexuality in Apocalypses, Testaments, Legends, Wisdom, and Related Literature. Contribution by Ibolya Balla. Eerdmans, Grand Rapids, MI, 2011. vii, 571 pp. $65.00/£43.99. IS B N 978-0-8028-6666-0. Lorberbaum, Yair, Disempowered King: Monarchy in Classical Jewish literature. Continuum, London, 2011. xi, 213 pp. £24.99. IS B N 978 1 4411 5429 3. Lukowski, Jerzy, Disorderly Liberty: The political culture of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth in the eighteenth century. Continuum, London, 2010. xii, 349 pp. £65.00. IS B N 978 1 4411 4812 4. Maciejko, Paweł, The Mixed Multitude: Jacob Frank and the Frankist Movement, 1755-1816. University of Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia, 2011. xiii, 360 pp. $65.00/£42.50. IS B N 978 0 8122 4315 4. Magness, Jodi, Stone and Dung, Oil and Spit: Jewish Daily Life in the Time of Jesus. Eerdmans, Grand Rapids, MI, 2011. 408 pp. $25.00. IS B N 978 0 8028 6558 8. Matthews, Shelly, Perfect Martyr: The Stoning of Stephen and the Construction of Christian Identity. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2010. 224 pp. $65.00. IS B N 978 0 19 539332 3. Mautner, Menachem, Law and Culture of Ancient Israel. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2011. x, 267 pp. $60.00. IS B N 978 0 19 960056 4. McNamara, Martin, Targum and Testament Revisited: Aramaic Paraphrases of the Hebrew Bible: A Light on the New Testament, Second Edition. Eerdmans, Grand Rapids, MI, 2010. viii, 359 pp. $32.00/£21.99. IS B N 978 0 8028 6275 4. Mottolese, Maurizio, Dio nel giudaismo rabbinico: Immagini e mito. Morcelliana, Brescia, 2010. 446 pp. €26.00. IS B N 978 88 372 2472 1. Mundill, Robin R., The King’s Jews: Money, Massacre and Exodus in Medieval England. Continuum, London, 2010.

xv, 240 pp. $39.95. IS B N 978 1 84725 186 2. Mutius, Hans-Georg von, Nichtmasoretische Bibelzitate im Midrasch Ha-Gadol (13./14. Jahrhundert). Peter Lang, Frankfurt, 2010. xxi, 124 pp. €36.00. IS B N 978 3 631 60826 5. Najman, Hindy, Past Renewals: Interpretative Authority, Renewed Revelationand the Quest for Perfection in Jewish Antiquity. Brill, Leiden, 2010. xxii, 270 pp. $154.00/€104.00. IS B N 978 90 04 18046 8. Nemo-Pekelman, Capucine, Rome et ses Citoyens Juifs (I ve-V e Siécles). Honoré Champion Éditeur, Paris, 2010. 319 pp. €76.80. IS B N 978 2 7453 2027 8. Nicosa, Francis R., and David Scrase (eds), Jewish Life in Nazi Germany: Dilemmas and Responses. Berghahn, New York, 2010. xv, 245 pp. $60.00/£35.00. IS B N 978 1 84545 676 4. Niehoff, Maren R., Jewish Exegesis and Homeric Scholarship in Alexandria. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2011. xiv, 222 pp. $85.00/£50.00. IS B N 978 1 107 00072 8. North, J.A., and S.R.F. Price (eds), The Religious History of the Roman Empire: Pagans, Jews and Christians. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2011. xxi, 577 pp. £45.00. IS B N 978 0 19 956735 5. Oegema, Gerbern S., Early Judaism and Modern Culture: Literature and Theology. Eerdmans, Grand Rapids, 2011. xvi, 236 pp. $30.00/£19.99. IS B N 978 0 8028 6444 4. Outhwaite, Ben, and Siam Bhayro (eds), ‘From a Sacred Source’: Genizah Studies in Honour of Professor Stefan C. Reif. Brill, Leiden, 2010. xliii, 419 pp. $216.00/€152.00. IS B N 978 90 04 19058 0. Paget, James Carleton, Jews, Christians and Jewish Christians in Antiquity. Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, 2010. xv, 538 pp. $257.50. IS B N 978 3 16 150312 2.

4 10 | j o u r n a l o f j e w i s h s t u d i e s Paul, Harry W., Henri de Rothschild, 18721947: Medicine and Theater. Ashgate, Farnham, 2011. 311 pp. £70.00. IS B N 978 1 4094 0515 3. Pelli, Moshe, Haskalah and Beyond: The Reception of the Hebrew Enlightenment and the Emergence of Haskalah Judaism. Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Lanham, MD, 2010. 266 pp. £22.95. IS B N 978 0 7618 5203 2. Pianko, Noam, Zionism and the Roads Not Taken: Rawidowicz, Kaplan, Kohn. Indiana University Press, Bloomington, IN, 2010. x, 279 pp. $65.00. IS B N 978 0 253 35455 6. Popović, Mladen (ed.), Authoritative Scriptures in Ancient Judaism. Brill, Leiden, 2010. viii, 394 pp. $185.00/€130.00. IS B N 978 90 04 18530 2. Portier-Young, Anathea E., Apocalypse Against Empire: Theologie of Resistance in Early Judaism. Eerdmans, Grand Rapids, MI, 2011. xxiii, 462 pp. $50.00/£32.99. IS B N 978 0 8028 6598 4. Price, David H., Johannes Reuchlin and the Campaign to Destroy Jewish Books. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2011. ix, 355 pp. £40.00. IS B N 978 0 19 539421 4. Pugliese, Stanislao G. (ed.), Answering Auschwitz: Primo Levi’s Science and Humanism after the Fall. Fordham University Press, New York, 2011. viii, 315 pp. $25.00. IS B N 978 0 8232 3359 5. Raphael, Marc Lee, The Synagogue in America: A Short History. New York University Press, New York, 2011. 225 pp. $30.00. IS B N 978 0 8147 7582 0. Rapoport-Albert, Ada, Women and the Messianic Heresy of Sabbatai Zevi 1666-1816. The Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, Portland, OR, 2011. xvi, 386 pp. £39.50. IS B N 978 1 904113 84 3. Ravitzky, Aviezer (ed.), Maimonides: Conservatism, Originality, Revolution. 2 vols. The Zalman Shazar Centre for

Jewish History, Jerusalem, 2008. 625 pp. (Hebrew) NIS 161.70. IS B N 978 965 227 245 4. Reuveni, Gideon, and Sarah WobickSegev (eds), The Economy in Jewish History: New Perspectives on the Interrelationship between Ethinicity and Economic Life. Berghahn, New York, 2011. x, 239 pp. $95.00/£53.00. IS B N 978 1 84545 774 7. Rogers, Stephanie Stidham, Inventing the Holy Land: American Protestant Pilgrimage to Palestine, 1865-1941. Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Lanham, MD, 2011. x, 161 pp. £37.95. IS B N 978 0 7391 4842 6. Rubinstein, William D. (ed.), The Palgrave Dictionary of Anglo-Jewish History. Associate Editors Michael A. Jolles and Hilary L. Rubinstein. Palgrave Macmillan, New York, 2011. xxi, 1061 pp. £125.00. IS B N 978 1 4039 3910 4. Sadka, Isaac, Studies in Hebrew Syntax and Semantics: Further Chapters, BenGurion University of the Negev Press, Beer-Sheva, 2011. 115 pp. (Hebrew), 31 pp. (English). $37.23. IS B N 978 965 536 042 4. Sagi, Avi, To Be a Jew: Joseph Chayin Brenner as a Jewish Existentialist. Trans. by Batya Stein. Continuum, London, 2011. xiii, 219 pp. £19.99. IS B N 978 1 4411 9583 8. Sarna, Jonathan D., and Adam Mendelsohn (ed.), Jews and the Civil War: A Reader. New York University Press, New York, 2010. x, 435 pp. $36.00. IS B N 978 0 8147 4091 0. Schmitz, Rolf P., Jakob Ben Reuben: Kriege Gottes: Milchamot hash-shem. Peter Lang, Frankfurt, 2011. 231 pp. $69.95. IS B N 978 3 631 59496 4. Schofer, Jonathan Wyn, Confronting Vulnerability: The Body and the Divine in Rabbinic Ethics. University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 2010. 224 pp. $40.00. IS B N 978 0 226 74009 6. Smith, John Arthur, Music in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity. Ashgate,

b o o k s r e c e i v e d | 4 11 Farnham, 2011. xxii, 271 pp. £60.00. IS B N 978 1 4094 0907 6. Smith, Mark S., God in Translation: Deities in Cross-Cultural Discourse in the Biblical World. Eerdmans, Grand Rapids, MI, 2008. xxvi, 382 pp. $18.00/£26.99. IS B N 978 0 8028 6433 8. Spector, Sheila A. (ed.), Romanticism/ Judaica: A Convergence of Cultures. Ashgate, Farnham, 2011. xi, 227 pp. $99.95. IS B N 978 0 7546 6880 0. Stavrakopoulou, Francesca, and John Barton (eds), Religious Diversity in Ancient Israel and Judah. T&T Clark, London, 2010. xvi, 207 pp. £60.00. IS B N 978 0 567 03215 7. Steiner, Richard C., A Biblical Translation in the Making: The Evolution and Impact of Saadia Gaon’s Tafsir. Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA, 2011. x, 188 pp. £40.95. IS B N 978 0 674 03335 1. Stern, David, and Katrin Kogman-Appel (eds), The Washington Haggadah. Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA, 2011. 162 pp. plus plates. £29.95. IS B N 978 0 674 05117 1. Stone, Michaels E., Ancient Judaism: New Visions and Views. Eerdmans, Grand Rapids, MI, 2011. xiv, 242 pp. $30.00/£19.99. IS B N 978 0 8028 6636 3. Stramara Jr., Daniel, F., God’s Timetable: The Book of Revelation and the Feast of Seven Weeks. Pickwick Publications, Eugene, OR, 2011. xvi, 185 pp. $22.00. IS B N 978 1 60899 638 4. Stromberg, Jacob, Isaiah After Exile: The Author of Third Isaiah as Reader and Redactor of the Book. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2011. xvi, 281 pp. £70.00. IS B N 978 0 19 959391 0. Sznaider, Natan, Jewish Memory and the Cosmopolitan Order. Polity Press, Malden, MA, 2011. vi, 205 pp. £50.00. IS B N 978 0 7456 4796 8. Tooman, William A., and Michael A. Lyons (eds), Transforming Visions: Tranformations of Text, Tradition and

Theology in Ezekiel. Foreword by Marvin A. Sweeney. Pickwick Publications, Eugene, OR, 2010. xxv, 350 pp. $42.00. IS B N 978 1 55635 285 0. Trigano, Shmuel, Philosophy of the Law: The Political in the Torah. Shalem Press, Jerusalem and New York, 2011. ix, 555 pp. $25.95. IS B N 978 965 7052 71 6. Ulrich, Eugene, and Peter F. Flint, Qumran Cave 1, II: The Isaiah Scrolls, Part 1: Plates and Transcriptions. Contribution by Martin G. Abegg Jr. Oxford University Press, Oxford, 2010. xv, 151 pp. $180.00. IS B N 978 0 19 956666 2. Vermes, Geza, Jesus in the Jewish World. SCM Press, London, 2010. xii, 268 pp. £16.99. IS B N 978 0 334 04379 9. Vermes, Geza, The Real Jesus: Then and Now. Fortress Press, Minneapolis, MN, 2010. xi, 185 pp. $19.00. IS B N 978 0 8006 9763 1. Victor, Royce, M., Colonial Education and Class Formation in Early Judaism: A Postcolonial Reading. T&T Clark, London, 2010. x, 212 pp. £65.00. IS B N 978 0 567 24719 3. Voltaggio, Francesco Giosuè, La Oración de Los Padres y Las Madres de Israel: Investigación en el Targum del Pentateuco: La antigua tradición judía y los orígenes del cristianismo. EVD, Navarra, 2010. 564 pp. €36.00. IS B N 978 84 9945 137 4. Walck, Leslie W., Son of Man in the Parables of Enoch and in Matthew. T&T Clark, London, 2011. xiv, 267 pp. £65.00. IS B N 978 0 567 02729 0. Webber, Jonathan, Rediscovering Traces of Memory: The Jewish Heritage of Polish Galicia. Photographs by Chris Schwarz. Indiana University Press, Bloomington, IN, 2009. 192 pp. £15.95. IS B N 978 1 906764 03 6. Weiss, Zeev, Oded Irshai, Jodi Magness and Seth Schwartz (eds), ‘Follow the Wise’: Studies in Jewish History and Culture in Honor of Lee I. Levine. Eisenbrauns, Winona Lake, IN, 2010. xxvii, 100 pp. (Hebrew), 468 pp.

412 | jou r na l of j ew ish st u di es (English). $69.50. IS B N 978 1 57506 200 6. Werman, Cana, and Aharon Shemesh, Revealing the Hidden: Exegesis and Halakha in the Qumran Scrolls. The Bialik Institute, Jerusalem, 2011. 484 pp. (Hebrew). $30.61. IS B N 978 965 536 038 7. Wiese, Christian, and Paul Betts (eds), Years of Persecution, Years of Extermination: Saul Friedländer and the Future of Holocaust Studies. Continuum, London, 2010. xix, 370 pp. £22.99. IS B N 978 1 4411 2987 1.

Wimpfheimer, Barry Scott, Narrating the Law: A Poetics of Talmudic Legal Stories. University of Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia, 2011. 239 pp. $59.95. IS B N 978 0 8122 4299 7. Xeravits, Geza G. (ed.), Dualism in Qumran. T&T Clark, London, 2010. viii, 199 pp. £60.00. IS B N 978 0 567 23435 3. Xeravits, Geza G., and József Zsengellér (eds), Studies in the Book of Wisdom. Brill, Leiden, 2010. ix, 233 pp. $138.00/€97.00. IS B N 978 90 04 18612 5.