Sustain Me With Raisin-Cakes: Pesikta deRav Kahana and the Popularization of Rabbinic Judaism (Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism)

Sustain Me With Raisin-Cakes

Supplements to the

Journal for the Study of Judaism Editor

Hindy Najman Department of Near and Middle Eastern Civilizations, University of Toronto Associate Editors

Florentino García Martínez Qumran Institute, University of Groningen

Benjamin G. Wright, III Department of Religion Studies, Lehigh University Advisory Board

j.j. collins – j. duhaime – a. hilhorst p.w. van der horst – a. klostergaard petersen m.a. knibb – j.t.a.g.m. van ruiten – j. sievers g. stemberger – e.j.c. tigchelaar – j. tromp

VOLUME 133

Sustain Me With Raisin-Cakes Pesikta deRav Kahana and the Popularization of Rabbinic Judaism

by

Rachel A. Anisfeld

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2009

This book is printed on acid-free paper. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Anisfeld, Rachel A. Sustain me with raisin-cakes : Pesikta deRav Kahana and the popularization of rabbinic Judaism / by Rachel A. Anisfeld. p. cm. — (Supplements to the journal for the study of Judaism ; v. 133) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-90-04-15322-6 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. Pesikta de-Rav Kahana. 2. Midrash—History and criticism. 3. Rabbinical literature—History and criticism. I. Title. II. Series. BM517.P36A55 2009 296.1’406—dc22 2009001094

ISSN 1384-2161 ISBN 978 90 04 15322 6 Copyright 2009 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands

CONTENTS Acknowledgments ........................................................................ Abbreviations, Conventions and Textual Editions ....................... Table I: Timetable of Midrashic Collections Referred to in this Book .................................................................................

vii ix xi

PART ONE

INTRODUCTIONS Chapter One

General Introduction ..........................................

3

Chapter Two Methodological Introduction: On The Self-Referential Reading of PRK Texts .....................................

20

PART TWO

PESIKTA DERAV KAHANA PRK ON ITS OWN Chapter Three The Forms of PRK’s Preaching: Exegesis Turned Homiletical ..............................................................................

45

Chapter Four PRK’s Thematic Concerns: A Theology of Intimacy, Humility, and Indulgence ........................................

67

PART THREE

PRK IN RELATION TO WHAT CAME BEFORE: TANNAITIC COMPARISONS Chapter Five From Exegesis to Homily: Stylistic Comparisons ............................................................................

97

Chapter Six From Honor to Intimacy: Thematic Comparisons ............................................................................

120

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contents PART FOUR

PRK IN HISTORICAL CONTEXT Chapter Seven The Social and Institutional Context: The Changing World of Late Antiquity ...................................

147

Chapter Eight The Rhetorical Context: Contemporary Christian Homily .....................................................................

163

Conclusion ...................................................................................

189

Appendix The Hebrew/Aramaic Text of Selected PRK Midrashim ............................................................................... Bibliography ................................................................................. Source Index ................................................................................ General Index ..............................................................................

193 209 215 217

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This book grew out of my dissertation and out of the years I spent in graduate study in the department of Asian and Middle Eastern Studies at the University of Pennsylvania. I owe a great debt to the institution for financial support during that time, especially to the Ellis Fund. I also received funding from the National Foundation for Jewish Culture and the Memorial Foundation for Jewish Culture. I benefited greatly from a number of teachers at Penn. Jeffrey Tigay provided important textual training, never flagging moral support, and a model of integrity and clarity in scholarship. Robert Kraft helped the project with his expertise in early Christianity and his tendency to question all assumptions. He also facilitated the publication of this book, by connecting me to Hindy Najman and Brill. Others at Penn who were important teachers include: Barry Eichler, Eddie Breuer and Ross Kraemer. I owe the greatest thanks to David Stern, my mentor and dissertation supervisor. This book was deeply influenced by his teaching and scholarship, and many of its ideas were born out of his keen textual instincts. I learned from him to allow rabbinic texts to be complicated and surprising, to bring to their study as many other theoretical and historical perspectives as possible, and above all, to appreciate and enjoy their richness. Over the years, he has inspired and challenged and encouraged me. I am grateful for the time he has spent teaching and mentoring me, and for the time he continues to spend helping me make my way in the scholarly world. I am also indebted to my undergraduate teachers in the department of Religion at Princeton, where I began this journey. I was fortunate to have as a mentor Martha Himmelfarb whose support and interest have continued long after I graduated. In those years I was also exposed to the critical minds of John Gager and Elaine Pagels. Pagels’ seminar in early Christian Gnosticism taught me the great insights one can garner from a simple comparison of texts. Studying the rabbis has been more fun because of some great friends and fellow students. Beth Berkowitz was my first dissertation buddy and continues to offer help and support and a sense of comradery. Others who have studied and laughed with me over the rabbis include: Susan Berman, Moshe Simon, Elsie Stern and Andrea Weiss.

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acknowledgments

I am indebted to a number of people who helped me in the transition from dissertation to book. Christine Hayes read the entire manuscript and offered suggestions for change in the most gentle and encouraging tone. Others who helped by reading whole or parts of the manuscript include: Susan Berman, Steven Fraade, Ann Matter and Tzvi Novick. I thank each of them for taking the time to read and respond so thoughtfully. In the final stages of this project, I also received important technical assistance from Eibert Tigchelaar and Naftali Cohn. I thank the Jewish Theological Seminary Press for granting permission to print parts of the Mandelbaum critical edition of Pesikta deRav Kahana as an appendix to this book. I thank the University at Albany for granting me research privileges. John Collins warmly welcomed me into Brill’s JSJSS and offered advice and encouragement on revisions and publication. Hindy Najman has shepherded the project along, with a constant sense of enthusiasm for the project. She offered a number of key ideas for improvement of the manuscript and made herself available for my many questions. I thank Mattie Kuiper at Brill for her role in beginning the process of publication, and Camilla Werner and Renee Otto for their role in seeing it to fruition. My parents have modeled for me a scholarly life of rigor, creativity and persistence, always balanced by a strong family life, and they have nurtured and taken pride in my endeavors for as long as I can remember. I thank them for their love and support, and for an occasional emergency childcare session. I thank my children, Medad, Margalit and Asher for slowing me down in this project enough to enjoy life. They provide the chaos and free-wheeling joy that is such a contrast to the controlled work of writing. My husband, Tim, is my office- and life-mate. He conscientiously read various drafts of this work, helped with computer woes and gave me pep talks when needed. Mostly, though, I feel incredibly blessed and grateful to share such a rich life with him.

ABBREVIATIONS, CONVENTIONS AND TEXTUAL EDITIONS All translations of rabbinic texts are my own unless otherwise indicated. Translations of the Hebrew Bible are from the New Jewish Publication Society’s translation, although I have freely modified them where necessary to indicate rabbinic rendering of a verse. Translations of Christian Scriptures are from the New Revised Standard Version. Transliterations follow the SBL Handbook’s “General-Purpose Style” with the following exceptions: 1) “pesikta” and “hakadosh” both include a “k” for the Hebrew letter kuf instead of a “q,” as this is their popular form, and 2) I only use an apostrophe between letters where two vowels appear next to each other in the English rendering. The following is a list of abbreviations used throughout the book. For midrashic texts, I have also included here the particular textual edition being used. Full bibliographical information appears in the bibliography. AJSR b. BT EJ GR HUCA JAAR JECS JBL JT JTS JPS JQR LR M Mekh PRK R.

Association for Jewish Studies Review ben, bar (= son of ) Babylonian Talmud Encyclopaedia Judaica Genesis Rabbah (ed. Theodor-Albeck) Hebrew Union College Annual Journal of the American Academy of Religion Journal of Early Christian Studies Journal of Biblical Literature Jerusalem Talmud Jewish Theological Seminary Jewish Publication Society Jewish Quarterly Review Leviticus Rabbah (ed. Margulies) Mishnah Mekhilta deRabbi Ishmael (ed. Horowitz-Rabin) Pesikta deRav Kahana (ed. Mandelbaum) Rabbi

x

abbreviations, conventions and textual editions

SH Scripta Hierosolymitana Sifra (ed. Finkelstein, where available) Sifre Deut Sifre to Deuteronomy (ed. Finkelstein) Sifre Num Sifre to Numbers (ed. Horowitz)

TABLE I: TIMETABLE OF MIDRASHIC COLLECTIONS REFERRED TO IN THIS BOOK1 I. Tannaitic Midrashim2

3 4

Approximate Date of Redaction

Biblical Book Covered3

Style4

1) Mekhilta de R. Ishmael Rabbi Ishmael

Second half of third century

Exodus

Exegetical

2) Sifra

R. Akiva

Second half of third century

Leviticus

Exegetical

3) Sifre Numbers

R. Ishmael

Mid-third century

Numbers

Exegetical

4) Sifre Deuteronomy

R. Akiva

Late third century

Deuteronomy Exegetical

Collection Name

School Association

1 Information in this table is based on H. L. Strack and Günter Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash (trans. and ed. Markus Bockmuehl; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1996). Dates are subject to scholarly disagreement. 2 Tannaitic midrashim are those midrashim in which the tradents named are primarily tannaim, and amoraic midrashim are midrashim in which the tradents named are both tannaim and amoraim. 3 In many of these midrashim only parts of the biblical book are commented upon. 4 For a full discussion of the difference between an “exegetical” and a “homiletical” style, see chapter 5.

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table i

II. Amoraic Midrashim Collection Name

Approximate Date Biblical Material of Redaction Covered

Style

1) Genesis Rabbah

First half of fifth century

Genesis

Exegetical

2) Lamentations Rabbah

First half of fifth century

Lamentations

Exegetical

3) Leviticus Rabbah Fifth century

Leviticus

Homiletical

4) Pesikta deRav Kahana

Synagogal readings for holidays and special shabbatot

Homiletical

Fifth century

PART ONE

INTRODUCTIONS

CHAPTER ONE

GENERAL INTRODUCTION On the third new moon . . . on that very day (Ex 19:1): R. Lazar said: It is like a king who wanted to marry a woman of noble descent. He said: I will not ask for her hand in marriage without offering anything in exchange. Only after I do her some good deeds will I ask her to marry me. He saw her at the baker’s, and he filled her arms with delicate, white bread; at the tavern-keeper’s, and he gave her spiced wine to drink; at the shop of one who force-feeds birds, and he filled her arms with force-fed birds; at the shop of a dealer in figs, and he filled her arms with dried figs (Pesikta deRav Kahana 12.11).

This mashal compares God at Sinai to a king wooing a noblewoman with various indulgent treats like spiced wine and dried figs. The nimshal which follows this excerpt makes the connection to the food and drink God provided for Israel in the desert, understanding these provisions as part of God’s courtship of Israel in preparation for their marriage at Sinai. This midrash is striking in its depiction of an intimate relationship between God and Israel at Sinai. Whereas the biblical account of Sinai, with its thunder and lightning and prohibition from getting too close to the mountain, emphasizes distance and awe, our midrash, by focusing on the nurturing provided prior to Sinai, manages to create an image of intimacy and personal connection, the private moment of a man offering treats to his beloved in the hopes of marriage. The intimacy in this midrash is characteristic of the religious language used throughout the midrashic collection Pesikta deRav Kahana (henceforth PRK). Here in PRK we find a gentle God who speaks directly and personally to Moses and to Israel and who speaks in the personal language of emotions, addressing the people’s fears and worries with words of comfort and love. This language is a new homiletical language not present to the same extent in earlier tannaitic midrashim, where the emphasis is more on the intellectual rigors of exegetical and halakhic queries and on the related thematic concerns of authority and obedience. Indeed, the tannaitic midrash Mekhilta deRabbi Ishmael also has a mashal about God at Sinai, but it imagines God as a ruler establishing his authority over his people rather than as a suitor wooing his beloved. Mekhilta’s ruler convinces the people to accept his authority through a process of rational, logical

4

chapter one

persuasion, demonstrating to them that he would make a good ruler by protecting them from enemies and providing an easily accessible water supply.1 By contrast, PRK’s lover does not engage so much in a process of logical persuasion but instead tries to win his beloved’s heart through extravagant treats like spiced wine and dried figs. The process of emotional persuasion through the use of indulgent treats which we see in this mashal is an apt parable for the work of PRK as a whole. PRK too is involved in a project of wooing. Its new homiletical language of emotion and intimacy is a kind of indulgence when contrasted to the serious rigors of the halakhic and technical exegetical concerns of tannaitic midrashim. Moreover, PRK’s new language has additional traits that make it indulgent. There is a frequent flattery of the people in PRK, as we witness in this mashal in the use of the term “woman of noble descent” (bat tovim ubat ganasim). And there is a general movement away from rebuke and judgment toward a more relaxed, forgiving attitude concerning sin and religious obligation. This new language of intimacy and indulgence is the indulgent treat that PRK offers its readers. And it is my contention in this book that these treats are part of a historical process of wooing, the rabbinic wooing of the many non-rabbinic Jews of the time. Here is where text and history meet. This study has three goals: first, to define PRK’s special discourse; second, to show that its discourse is new in the history of rabbinic midrash; and third, to place this new special discourse into its historical context. This last task involves asking the basic question: Why then? What factors led to the development of this new intimate indulgent language of PRK at this particular point in history? Perhaps the question can even be widened a bit, as PRK represents one manifestation of a larger sea change in the history of rabbinic midrash. It is one of the first of the “aggadic” midrashim, midrashim which deal primarily with non-legal topics, even when analyzing legal biblical passages. And it is also one of the first of a new genre of midrash known as “homiletical midrash” whose organizational structure is based on the synagogal parashah readings as opposed to the exegetical midrashim which offer a verse-by-verse commentary. PRK’s new language is thus part of a larger movement of change within rabbinic midrash. What historical developments account for this particular development of PRK’s discourse as well as this larger shift in midrashic interest and style?

1

Mekhilta on Exodus 20:1, “I am the Lord your God,” Bahodesh 5.

general introduction

5

PRK is an amoraic midrash which scholars think was redacted around the fifth century C.E. As such it comes at a point in the history of the rabbinic movement that may be seen as a bridge period between the tannaitic and the geonic periods. For according to the current revised understanding of the process of popularizing rabbinic Judaism, during the tannaitic period the rabbis were still a small elite group and it was not until the geonic period that the rabbinic movement achieved great popularity as the major institutional form of Judaism.2 What happened between the tannaitic period of elitism and the geonic period of popularity remains a mystery; how the rabbis managed to achieve such wide-spread popularity and influence when they began as a peripheral group of scholars is unclear. The development of an enticing and accessible rhetoric like the emotional and indulgent language of PRK and like the genres of aggadic and homiletical midrash in general may be part of the answer. Scholars have indeed pointed to the third through fifth centuries—that is, the end of the tannaitic through the amoraic periods—as a time during which the rabbis seem to have shifted focus, showing a greater interest and involvement in the large non-rabbinic Jewish population and its characteristic institution, the synagogue, and becoming more lenient in certain legal arenas. However, most of the scholarship has concerned shifts in legal activity and official involvement in communal affairs.3 This book adds the rhetorical piece of the puzzle, suggesting that it was also through the development of a new more appealing rhetoric like the one we see in PRK that the rabbis began to win broader popularity and influence. It wasn’t just that the rabbis were actually easing certain legal restrictions and making religious obligations slightly less onerous, but also that they were involved in a public relations campaign to make their form of Judaism seem more indulgent and attractive. PRK is one example of that effort.

2 See especially Lee Levine, The Rabbinic Class of Roman Palestine in Late Antiquity (Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi; Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1989); Martin Goodman, State and Society in Roman Galilee A.D. 132–212 (Totowa, NJ: Rowman & Allanheld, 1983); and Seth Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society, 200 B.C.E. to 640 C.E. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001). For a fuller list and discussion, see chapter 7. 3 See Levine, The Rabbinic Class; idem, “The Sages and the Synagogue in Late Antiquity: The Evidence of the Galilee,” in The Galilee in Late Antiquity (ed. Lee I. Levine; New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1992); Goodman, State and Society; Shaye J. D. Cohen, “The Place of the Rabbi in Jewish Society of the Second Century,” in The Galilee in Late Antiquity. On the relaxation of laws during this period, see Ephraim Elimelech Urbach, “The Rabbinical Laws of Idolatry in the Second and Third Centuries in the Light of Archaeological and Historical Facts,” Israel Exploration Journal 9: 149–165, 225–245.

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chapter one

In terms of the larger cultural historical context, PRK’s popularizing discourse developed at a time in which Christianity was also in the process of popularization, but on a much grander scale, with the Christianization of the Roman Empire. Here, too, rhetoric played a great role, and there are certain striking resemblances between the two religions’ rhetorics of popularization, like the new emphasis on the personal, private sphere, the heavy use of emotion as opposed to rational argument and the depiction of an intimate, gentle, loving and immanent God. There are also important differences between the two discourses, helping us to see how the power discrepancy between the two may have influenced their different rhetorical styles and how each group began to develop its own unique cultural language during this late antique period. The book is divided into four sections. The first section is introductory; it includes this chapter and the one that follows (chapter 2), an introduction to the book’s methodology of reading. The second part of the book examines the PRK text on its own, looking first (chapter 3) at some of its rhetorical forms, and second (chapter 4) at its theology. The emphasis in both chapters is on intimacy and indulgence. Chapter 3 shows how PRK uses certain forms like the petihta and the dialogue to create the illusion of a live, contemporary, personal, comforting homiletical voice while remaining firmly rooted in the Scriptural text. Chapter 4 examines PRK’s theology of an intimate, immanent, humble and indulgent God. The third section takes a step back from the PRK text to consider where it came from and thereby get a clearer sense of what is new about PRK’s language. The contrast is drawn between the amoraic midrashim PRK and Leviticus Rabbah, on the one hand, and a number of tannaitic midrashim, on the other. The comparisons are divided into two parts, chapter 5 dealing with stylistic comparisons, and roughly correlating with material in chapter 3, and chapter 6 dealing with thematic comparisons, and roughly correlating with material in chapter 4. The final section of the book puts the text into its historical context, looking first at some of the social and institutional changes that may have influenced such a development (chapter 7), and second at PRK’s rhetorical context of contemporary Christian preaching (chapter 8). The book is thus first grounded in the text itself, and then looks to literary and historical context to make sense of that text’s special language. Before proceeding to the work ahead, I want to offer some scholarly context for this book, some sense of the scholarly discussions, arguments and movements out of which this book took shape and in which this book participates.

general introduction

7

Exegesis vs. Homily and the “Midrash in General” Problem Midrash scholars seem inevitably drawn to the question of midrash’s nature as exegesis versus homily. Should midrash be understood primarily as a homiletical response to history, to contemporary events and religious needs, as Joseph Heinemann has suggested, or should it be understood primarily as a response to problems and bumps in the biblical text, as Daniel Boyarin has argued?4 Is it a new speech facing outward toward an audience, or a reading of an old speech, that of the Bible, generally looking backward to the text? Christine Hayes, writing about a similar debate in relation to differences between the two Talmuds, uses the terms ‘internal’ and ‘external’ to explain the debate, with ‘internal’ referring to those factors which are the natural evolution of the textual tradition, and ‘external’ referring to those factors which take place outside of the text, in the larger world of history and society.5 Fraade suggests that these two factors should be understood as two sides of the same coin, asserting the “inextricable interconnection” between history and hermeneutics. 6 In an exchange over the nature of the mashal between Daniel Boyarin and David Stern, Stern sums up their differences in a way that encapsulates the general debate:

4

Joseph Heinemann, “The Nature of the Aggadah,” trans. Marc Bregman, in Midrash and Literature (ed. Geoffrey Hartman and Sanford Budick; New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986), 41–55; Aggadah and Its Development [Hebrew] (Jerusalem: Keter, 1974); Public Sermons in the Talmudic Period [Hebrew] ( Jerusalem: Mossad Harav Kook, 1982); and the English version of this volume, Literature of the Synagogue (ed. Joseph Heinemann and Jakob Petuchowski; New York: Behrman House, 1975). Daniel Boyarin, Intertextuality and the Reading of Midrash (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990). See Boyarin’s critique of Heinemann in his introduction, 3–5. Another important scholar who emphasizes the exegetical aspects of midrash is James Kugel. See his In Potiphar’s House: The Interpretive Life of Biblical Texts (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1990), especially chapter 9, “Nine Theses,” 247–270. See also Richard Kalmin’s discussion of the history/hermeneutics question in his The Sage in Jewish Society of Late Antiquity (London: Routledge, 1999) and “The Use of Midrash for Social History,” in Current Trends in the Study of Midrash (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 133–159. 5 Christine Hayes, Between the Babylonian and Palestinian Talmuds: Accounting for Halakhic Difference in Selected Sugyot from Tractate Avodah Zarah (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 3. 6 Steven D. Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary: Torah and Its Interpretation in the Midrash Sifre to Deuteronomy (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1991), 15. See also his more recent work integrating the perspectives of history, hermeneutics and rhetoric: “Moses and the Commandments: Can Hermeneutics, History, and Rhetoric Be Disentangled?” in The Idea of Biblical Interpretation: Essays in Honor of James L. Kugel (ed. Hindy Najman and Judith H. Newman; Leiden: Brill, 2004), 399–422.

8

chapter one The difference between us in this matter is not semantic or trivial; we have different views as to how “closed” or purely textual (or intertextual) the world of midrash is. What I call the rhetorical function of the mashal is, in effect, shorthand for everything that Rabbis brought to the composition of the mashal from the “outside”—that is to say, from an agenda or program or range of experience that was entirely outside the bounds of Scripture. For Boyarin, midrash would appear to be determined mainly if not solely by Scriptural facts.7

In this book, I follow Stern’s and Heinemann’s leads in emphasizing the homiletical, rhetorical and historical sides of midrash. However, I do so not because I believe that all midrash requires such an approach, but because I believe that the amoraic homiletical midrash PRK requires such an approach. One of the goals of this book is to place PRK in a literary history that shows the changes and developments in midrash over the years. Boyarin’s texts in the above debate are tannaitic while Stern’s are amoraic. As we will see, tannaitic midrashim like the ones Boyarin studies tend to be more exegetical in certain respects than their amoraic counterparts so that the more “closed” approach of Boyarin suits his text. Stern’s amoraic texts, on the other hand, like PRK, require a different approach, one which also attends to the rhetorical and historical factors of a preacher trying to woo an audience. The need to attend to the historical specificity of particular midrashic texts is well articulated by Martin Jaffee in his critique of Boyarin’s Intertextuality book: Nothing in Boyarin’s title prepares the reader to understand that this book is not about intertextuality and ‘midrash in general.’ Rather, it is a study of a specific midrashic work, in particular, the Mekhilta de Rabbi Ishmael, commonly numbered among the tannaitic midrashim.8

This critique is true of many of the midrashic studies from that period and earlier, as is evidenced from the lack of specificity of many of their titles: Darkhe HaAgadah (“The Methods of Aggadah”), The Rabbinic Mind, Midrash and Literature, Parables in Midrash, “The Hermeneutics of Midrash” and “Two Introductions to Midrash.”9 7 David Stern, “David Stern Responds,” in “An Exchange on the Mashal,” Prooftexts 5 (1985), 279. 8 Martin Jaffee, “The Hermeneutical Model of Midrashic Studies: What it Reveals and What it Conceals,” Prooftexts 11 (1991), 72. 9 Yitzhak Heinemann, Darkhe HaAgadah (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1950); Max Kadushin, The Rabbinic Mind (New York: JTS, 1952); Geoffrey Hartman and Sanford Budick, eds., Midrash and Literature (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986); David Stern, Parables

general introduction

9

In his critique of Boyarin’s “midrash in general” approach, Jaffee suggests that the hermeneutical school of midrash needs to pay closer attention to the work of Jacob Neusner. Indeed, Neusner is one of the few rabbinics scholars who engage in the comparison of different midrashic collections. In a series of works on the subject, he has posed important questions about the relationship between various midrashim, arguing that each one is a unique document with its own “authorship” interested in its own program. Although I differ with some of Neusner’s methods and conclusions, I find his comparative-historical research program to be an extremely valuable one and have adopted many aspects of it here.10 The “midrash in general” tendency may have been due to the influence of literary theory with its ahistorical interest in the hermeneutics of a generalized “midrash.”11 Or it may simply have been the result of a field still in its infancy; broad definitions come before careful differentiations among periods and types. In any case, since the time of Jaffee’s critique there has indeed been a greater awareness of the historical situatedness of individual rabbinic documents in the field. A good example is the recent study of the Rabbi Ishmael midrashim by Azzan Yadin.12 It represents

in Midrash: Narrative and Exegesis in Rabbinic Literature (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1991); Gerald Bruns, “The Hermeneutics of Midrash,” The Book and the Text (ed. Regina Schwartz; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 189–211; and James Kugel, “Two Introductions to Midrash,” Midrash and Literature, 77–103. 10 A few examples of Neusner’s many works on the subject are: Jacob Neusner, Comparative Midrash: The Plan and Program of Genesis Rabbah and Leviticus Rabbah (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1986); Judaism and Scripture: The Evidence of Leviticus Rabbah (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986); From Tradition to Imitation: The Plan and Program of Pesiqta deRab Kahana and Pesiqta Rabbati (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987); and Sifra in Perspective: The Documentary Comparison of the Midrashim of Ancient Judaism (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988). For critiques of Neusner’s methods, see Steven D. Fraade, “Interpreting Midrash I: Midrash and the History of Judaism,” Prooftexts 7 (1987): 179–184 and Robert Goldenberg, “Is ‘The Talmud’ a Document?,” in The Synoptic Problem in Rabbinic Literature (ed. Shaye J. D. Cohen; Providence, R.I.: Brown University, 2000), 3–10. This volume also includes other critiques of Neusner’s documentary approach, especially that of the source-critical method. See especially Richard Kalmin’s paper in this volume, as well as the introduction by Shaye Cohen, and the paper by Christine Hayes which argues that the source-critical and documentary approaches complement each other. See also Carol Bakhos’ discussion of Neusner’s approach in her “Method(ological) Matters in the Study of Midrash,” in Current Trends in the Study of Midrash (ed. Carol Bakhos; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 161–187. 11 For a discussion of the scholarly movement of the 70’s and 80’s which connected literary theorists and classical scholars of rabbinic midrash, see the introduction to David Stern’s Midrash and Theory: Ancient Jewish Exegesis and Contemporary Literary Studies (Evanston, Illinois: Northwestern University Press, 1996). 12 Azzan Yadin, Scripture as Logos: Rabbi Ishmael and the Origins of Midrash (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004).

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itself as a study exclusively of those two tannaitic midrashim, Mekhilta deRabbi Ishmael and Sifre Numbers, and one of its chief goals is to show the unique exegetical attitude of these midrashim as opposed to others like the Rabbi Akiva midrashim. Yadin also places these specific midrashim into historical context, examining the relationship between these midrashim and other early interpretive works like the Qumran and Ben Sira as well as other rabbinic works. Yadin’s study is a long way from the undifferentiated notion of rabbis and midrash in general which is the hallmark of much earlier midrashic scholarship. Beth Berkowitz’s Execution and Invention, while not a study of midrash per se, exemplifies this trend in rabbinic scholarship more generally, as she does not study the general rabbinic attitude toward execution but rather the attitude portrayed specifically in a few chapters of the Mishnah. Because of this specific textual focus, she, like Yadin, is able to make specific historical connections to rabbinic, early Christian and Roman trends of the tannaitic period.13 Such new scholarship notwithstanding, we still have very little of a literary history of rabbinic literature or rabbinic midrash. Interestingly enough, in the undoing of the generalized notion of midrash in general or of rabbinic literature in general, the field has come much farther in geographic differentiation than it has in temporal differentiation. Richard Kalmin’s study of the different attitudes towards the rabbinic sage in Babylonia and Palestine as well as Christine Hayes’ study of halakhic difference in the Tractate Avodah Zarah are two clear examples of this interest in geographic differentiation; the difference is now almost ubiquitous in Talmudic studies.14 My own goal is to contribute to the temporal differentiation between tannaitic and amoraic Palestinian midrashic works by considering the changes evidenced in the development of an amoraic work like Pesikta deRab Kahana. History and Literature We are in need of a literary history of midrash, and we are also in need of placing the literature, or at least individual components of it, into 13 Beth A. Berkowitz, Execution and Invention: Death Penalty Discourse in Early Rabbinic and Christian Cultures (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006). 14 Richard Kalmin, The Sage in Jewish Society, and Christine Hayes, Between the Babylonian and Palestinian Talmuds. See also Daniel Boyarin’s comparison of Palestinian and Babylonian texts in his Carnal Israel: Reading Sex in Talmudic Culture (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993).

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historical context. For a number of years, historical scholars and textual scholars of rabbinics had been moving forward in separate spheres, each group advancing its own field, literature or history. In midrash scholarship, this was partly the result of the midrash-theory connection of the 70’s and 80’s, in which the excitement over theoretical context sometimes ended up eclipsing a sense of historical context. Recently, midrash scholars have begun to take a renewed interest in history, again influenced by literary theory’s general return to history as part of the New Historicist movement and its aftermath.15 The way this trend has manifested itself in studies of rabbinic literature is principally through a renewed interest in rabbinic literature’s late antique Roman Christian context. Richard Kalmin and Seth Schwartz’s edited book, Jewish Culture and Society Under the Christian Roman Empire, and the conference out of which it emerged make such comparative studies their primary purpose.16 Boyarin’s Carnal Israel and Border Lines as well as Christine Hayes’ Gentile Impurities and Jewish Identities are examples of this trend to consider rabbinic views about a subject, whether sex or intermarriage, in relation and in comparison to contemporary Christian views about the same subject.17 Similarly, Galit Hasan-Rokem, Hayim Lapin and Joshua Levinson all place their rabbinic texts into the socio-cultural context of the late antique Roman Christian world through inter-cultural comparisons of significant textual motifs.18 Indeed, the field has come so far in this regard that new books about rabbinic texts seem to all make

15

See Carol Bakhos who speaks of a new “historical turn” in midrash scholarship, and Joshua Levinson who speaks of “a return to history.” Carol Bakhos, “Method(ological) Matters,” 179. Joshua Levinson, “Literary Approaches to Midrash,” in Carol Bakhos, Current Trends, 204. 16 Richard Kalmin and Seth Schwartz, eds., Jewish Culture and Society Under the Christian Roman Empire (Leuven: Peeters Publishers, 2003). On comparative biblical interpretation, see Marc Hirshman, A Rivalry of Genius: Jewish-Christian Biblical Interpretation in Late Antiquity (trans. Batya Stein; Albany: SUNY Press, 1996). 17 Daniel Boyarin, Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004). Christine Hayes, Gentile Impurities and Jewish Identities: Intermarriage and Conversion from the Bible to the Talmud (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002). 18 Galit Hasan-Rokem, Web of Life: Folklore and Midrash in Rabbinic Literature (trans. Batya Stein; Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2000); idem, Tales of the Neighborhood: Jewish Narrative Dialogues in Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003); Hayim Lapin, “Hegemony and Its Discontents: Palestinian Rabbis as a Late Roman Provincial Population,” in Kalmin and Schwartz, Jewish Culture and Society, 319–347; Joshua Levinson, “ ‘Tragedies Naturally Performed:’ Fatal Charades, Parodia Sacra, and the Death of Titus,” in Kalmin and Schwartz, Jewish Culture and Society, 349–382; and idem, “Literary Approaches to Midrash.”

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some claim of relationship to Christianity, as in Yadin’s Scripture as Logos and Berkowitz’s study of the Mishnah’s ritual of execution in relation to contemporary Roman practice as well as Christian martyr narratives.19 Most recently, Natalie Dohrmann and David Stern have published an edited work with essays on comparative biblical interpretation throughout history.20 Comparative studies are of course not new to rabbinic scholarship, but what is new is the theoretical sophistication and sense of caution and proportion with which such studies are now approached.21 Gone is the interest in amassing large numbers of parallels as in Ginzberg’s Legends of the Jews.22 The existence of contact between Judaism and Christianity or 19 Another work which seeks to historically situate specifically chapters 13–22 of PRK is that of Lewis Barth. He argues that these “Three of Rebuke and Seven of Consolation” PRK chapters are a rabbinic response to the Christianization of Jerusalem and can therefore be dated quite specifically to Tiberias between 451 and 527. Lewis M. Barth, “The ‘Three of Rebuke and Seven of Consolation’ Sermons in the Pesikta de Rav Kahana,” JJS 33 (1982): 503–515. Note also that the above discussion deals only with scholarship on Palestinian rabbinic texts. For the cultural context of Babylonian rabbinic texts, see especially the recent work of Yaakov Elman. 20 Natalie B. Dohrmann and David Stern, eds., Jewish Biblical Interpretation and Cultural Exchange: Comparative Exegesis in Context (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008). 21 See the bibliographical essay of Judith Baskin for a good account of the principal players in the early study of rabbinic-patristic exegetical contact in late antiquity, especially Heinrich Graetz and Louis Ginzberg. Judith R. Baskin, “Rabbinic-Patristic Exegetical Contacts in Late Antiquity: A Bibliographical Reappraisal” in Approaches to Ancient Judaism, Vol. V: Studies in Judaism and Its Greco-Roman Context (ed. William Scott Green; Atlanta, Georgia: Scholars Press, 1985), 53–80. Israel Yuval has suggested that one difference between scholars such as Saul Lieberman, Ephraim Urbach and Yitzhak Baer and the current generation of scholars is that these previous scholars paid more attention to Hellenistic parallels than to Christian ones. This suggestion was made as part of his paper entitled “Christianity in Talmud and Midrash: Parallelomania or Parallelophobia?” delivered at a colloquium at Princeton University honoring John Gager, 2006. See also Yuval’s book on comparisons during this period as well as the middle ages, Two Nations in Your Womb: Perceptions of Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages (trans. Barbara Harshav and Jonathan Chipman; Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006). 22 See Baskin’s discussion of Neusner’s “parallelomania” critique of the last generation of comparative scholarship. Jacob Neusner, Aphrahat and Judaism: The Christian-Jewish Argument in Fourth-Century Iran (Leiden: Brill, 1971), as cited in Baskin, “RabbinicPatristic Exegetical Contacts,” 58. Neusner cites Samuel Sandmel’s article, “Parallelomania,” JBL 81 (1962): 1–13. For an example of such work, see Louis Ginzberg, The Legends of the Jews (trans. Henrietta Szold; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1954). David Stern points out that one difference between the approach of contemporary scholars and that of earlier scholars such as Ginzberg as well as Bloch and Vermes, is that contemporary scholars have shifted their interest to comparative “reading practices” as opposed to the following of individual motifs. See David Stern’s introduction to Jewish Biblical Interpretation and Cultural Exchange. There he also discusses the pioneering work of Renee Bloch and Geza Vermes in the field of comparative exegesis.

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Judaism and Hellenism no longer requires proof. Instead, the interest is in the complicated nature of those relationships. As Kalmin and Schwartz note in the introduction to their book, the notion of “influence” is now considered a “blunt” tool of analysis, and has been replaced by more subtle notions of appropriation, subversion and shared cultural developments.23 Stern suggests thinking of individual interpreters as involved in a “negotiation” with their cultural context rather than simply “influence.”24 Hasan-Rokem speaks of dialogues between neighbors, Levinson “of a struggle for identity within a world of shared texts and meanings,” and Boyarin’s later work shows how blurred the distinction between Jews and Christians was in the early years.25 My own work is part of this new trend, situating the PRK text in its Roman Christian historical context through textual comparisons which point not to influence but to a shared culture, or more specifically to a shared rhetoric, that is, to a shared notion of what type of theology would appeal to a late antique audience. Moreover, the comparisons do not merely help to show similarity and contact, but also, in their differences, help to show the development of two distinct cultures, and specifically what Hayim Lapin has called “the construction of [an] alternative, provincial, ethnic, and religious identit[y]” for rabbinic Judaism.26 Within the history and literature movement, most scholars of rabbinic literature are focusing on relating texts to their external historical context, that is, to the Roman Christian environment. My aim is also to add to this sense of historical context the internal rabbinic historical context, the context of changes in the rabbinic movement. There have been tremendous gains made in the study of rabbinic history, as the old conception of a strong rabbinic movement right from the early days of Yavneh has gradually been revised. Part of the goal of this book is to draw connections between PRK’s language of persuasion and the new conception of the gradual growth of rabbinic influence during this period.

23

Kalmin and Schwartz, Jewish Culture and Society, 3. David Stern, “Introduction: On Comparative Biblical Exegesis—Interpretation, Influence, Appropriation,” in Jewish Biblical Interpretation and Cultural Exchange: Comparative Exegesis in Context (ed. Natalie B. Dohrmann and David Stern; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008), 13–14. 25 Hasan-Rokem, Tales of the Neighborhood; Levinson, “Tragedies,” 381; and Boyarin, Border Lines. 26 Lapin, “Hegemony and Its Discontents,” 341. 24

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chapter one Identity and Conversion

This book also participates in a growing interest among rabbinics scholars in questions of identity and conversion in late antiquity. Examples of such recent scholarship include Shaye Cohen’s The Beginnings of Jewishness, Hayes’ Gentile Impurities and Jewish Identities, Hayim Lapin’s edited work, Religious and Ethnic Communities in Later Roman Palestine and Boyarin’s Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity.27 The sense that emerges from this scholarship is that late antiquity is a time of great change with regard to ethnic and religious identities. Boundaries are being established, blurred and crossed, and conversion is a regular feature of life. I argue that PRK, too, is involved in a kind of conversion process, not of nonJews but of non-rabbinic Jews. Interestingly enough, in its attempt to “convert” such non-rabbinic Jews, the rabbis in PRK undergo their own conversion; they turn their technical academic rabbinic language into a “reaching out” language with wide appeal. Power and Powerlessness In asking questions about how the rabbis managed to effect such conversions and thereby achieve some power and influence in the Jewish community, this book participates in a new interest in questions of power among rabbinics scholars. As noted above, the late dating of the rabbis’ rise to power is a fairly new one, and rabbinics scholars are just beginning to ask about the process. Berkowitz argues that the rabbis’ discussion of the death penalty in the Mishnah was itself an attempt to achieve power through the assertion of an authority which they did not yet have in actuality. My own work suggests that the rabbis shifted gears after this

27

Shaye J. D. Cohen, The Beginnings of Jewishness: Boundaries, Varieties, Uncertainties (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999); and Hayim Lapin, ed., Religious and Ethnic Communities in Later Roman Palestine (Bethesda, Md.: University Press of Maryland, 1998). Also relevant are: Levinson’s discussion of God-fearers in his “Literary Approaches,” Schwartz’s discussion of Christianity’s Judaizing influence among Jews, and David Satran’s discussion of late antique narratives of conversion in his presentation, “Eros, Magic and Conversion in Fourth-Century Palestine: Reading the Text, Hearing the Story,” delivered at a colloquium honoring John Gager in Princeton University, May 2006. These discussions are all part of a new interest in issues of identity and conversion in late antiquity. For an older discussion of some of these issues, see A. D. Nock, Conversion: The Old and the New in Religion from Alexander the Great to Augustine of Hippo (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1933).

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tannaitic attempt to achieve power through the assertion of authority and instead tried a lighter touch, the appeal of intimacy and indulgence. In this regard I follow the line of reasoning suggested by Martin Goodman that the rabbis eased certain halakhic restrictions beginning in the third century as a way to attract followers.28 The achievement of power is also an issue in the Christianization of the Roman Empire, taking place at roughly the same period, and here, rabbinics scholars have much to learn from those studying early Christianity. Brown, Cameron and Auerbach all focus specifically on rhetoric, and show how a certain type of “humble” rhetoric was employed to attract a broad populace and present Christianity as a “universalis via,” a universal way.29 Of course, the achievement of influence by the rabbis is in no way commensurable to the immense imperial power achieved by Christian leaders, but the Christian model is nonetheless a useful one as it suggests how power may be achieved through rhetoric, and specifically through the use of a rhetoric which does not obviously aim at power or authority, but presents itself in a lowly, humble way. The comparison to Christianity also helps to highlight the relative powerlessness of the rabbis, their position as part of a conquered, subject group in the Empire. Here, too, there is much new research, both within rabbinic scholarship and in the broader university world, on domination and hegemony and its effects on subjugated people and their culture and rhetoric. Hayim Lapin makes interesting use of these new theories of hegemony and subaltern culture in his discussion of rabbinic discourse.30 There has also been talk in recent rabbinic scholarship of the work of James Scott and his notion of “hidden transcripts,” a subtle speech of resistance employed by the dominated.31 These notions will be helpful in my analysis of PRK’s discourse as it distinguishes itself in certain marked

28

Goodman, State and Society, especially 180–181. Peter Brown, Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity: Towards a Christian Empire (Madison, Wisc.: University of Wisconsin Press, 1992); Averil Cameron, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire: The Development of Christian Discourse (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991); and Eric Auerbach, “Sermo Humilis,” in Literary Language and Its Public in Late Latin Antiquity and in the Middle Ages (trans. R. Manheim; New York: Pantheon, 1965). 30 Lapin, “Hegemony.” See Lapin’s discussion of subaltern studies. 31 James C. Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990). See Berkowitz’s use of Scott in her Execution and Invention, 161–164. Scott is also referred to by Yuval in his presentation, “Christianity in Talmud and Midrash.” 29

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respects from contemporary Christian discourse, especially in its bold resistance to any explicit discussion of contemporary events. SITZ

IM

LEBEN: The Synagogue vs. Academy Controversy

While most scholars agree that the tannaitic midrashim are a product of the rabbinic academy, the bet midrash, the Sitz im Leben of the amoraic homiletical midrashim is a subject of some controversy. For many years the consensus was that the homiletical midrashim contained actual homilies used in synagogues, with perhaps minor changes due to the change from oral to literary form.32 Recently, this view has been questioned, especially by Richard Sarason, who rightly points to evidence of the strong hand of the redactor, such as the stereotyped endings of many petihta’ot.33 Marc Hirshman goes so far as to suggest that these midrashic collections are “closer to primers for the school-house academy.”34 On the other hand, others such as David Stern still maintain that “the Amoraic anthologies must have been closely tied to synagogue-preaching,” suggesting that they may in fact have been used as source-books for future preaching rather than as records of past preaching.35 Most recently, Elsie Stern has staked out a middle ground, suggesting that PRK in particular may have functioned as something of “a

32

For an example of the previously held presumption about the homiletical nature of these texts, see Lieberman’s view as it is expressed in Greek in Jewish Palestine, 161: “A large part of the Haggadic literature consists of sermons or fragments of sermons which are incorporated in the texts of the Midrashim.” Saul Lieberman, Greek in Jewish Palestine/ Hellenism in Jewish Palestine (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1994). Joseph Heinemann continues with this presumption, but adds a slight nuance, understanding the midrashic texts to be literary versions of what were once oral sermons. Heinemann still sees the connection to live sermons to be strong enough to include midrashic excerpts in his book of collected sermons from the period, Public Sermons in the Talmudic Period. For his view of the literary journey of sermons in homiletical midrash, see his “The Art of Composition in Midrash Leviticus Rabbah [Hebrew],” Hasifrut 2 (1971): 808–834. For more on the role of the editor in creating a literary homily in PRK as well as other homiletical midrashim, see Norman J. Cohen, “Structure and Editing in the Homiletic Midrashim,” AJSR 6 (1981): 1–20. 33 Richard Sarason, “The Petihtot in Leviticus Rabba: ‘Oral Homilies’ or Redactional Constructions?,” JJS 33 (1982): 557–565. 34 Marc Hirshman, “The Preacher and His Public in Third-Century Palestine,” JJS 42 (1991), 113. 35 David Stern, “Anthology and Polysemy in Classical Midrash,” in The Anthology in Jewish Literature (ed. David Stern; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004).

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bridge text,” with ties to both the synagogue and the academy.36 I want to follow Elsie Stern’s lead, changing the terms of the discussion from synagogue vs. academy to synagogue and academy. If we are looking for an exact Sitz im Leben, however, doesn’t each particular text need to be assigned to one or the other? The answer, I think, is that the nature of the scholarly discussion has shifted away from the question of exact Sitz im Leben (which we cannot know) to a discussion of the nature of the text, its audience and the way it functioned, and in these realms we may be able to say that the text has certain synagogue-like features and certain academy-like features. The synagogue/academy conversation has become a way of talking about a whole range of textual issues other than just the historical question of the origins of the text. A bet midrash setting implies an inner rabbinic audience made up of scholars and sages, like the audience proposed by Fraade for Sifre Deuteronomy, and it implies an atmosphere of intellectual discussion and debate.37 A synagogue setting implies a more diverse and popular audience, including Jews not associated with the rabbinic movement. A synagogue Sitz im Leben also implies a less technical and rigorous intellectual discussion, and a more accessible and appealing language.38 What, then, does it mean to say that a midrash like PRK partakes of features of both the synagogue and the academy? What I want to suggest is that all midrashic works exist on a continuum in relation to this synagogue/academy question. On the far end of the continuum would be any midrashic work that seems clearly to partake only of academic features. Tannaitic midrashim like Mekhilta and Sifre to Numbers would probably be close to this end of the continuum, although not at the very end as they too contain at least some features that have popular appeal, like the mashal. I would place PRK farther along the continuum, past the mid-point, toward the synagogue side but not all the way to that end. PRK is formally a commentary on Torah and haftarah readings for special shabbatot and holidays and thus has an intimate connection with the synagogue and the popular calendar.39 Its language is also generally 36 Elsie R. Stern, From Rebuke to Consolation: Exegesis and Theology in the Liturgical Anthology of the Ninth of Av Season (Providence, Rhode Island: Brown Judaic Studies, 2004), 82. 37 Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary, 18. 38 See Elsie Stern’s discussion of the implications of a synagogue or academy Sitz im Leben, From Rebuke to Consolation, 9. 39 See Stern, From Rebuke to Consolation on the development of the liturgical calendar and PRK’s relationship to it. See also Jacob Neusner’s notion that PRK is formally a

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more accessible and less technical and intellectual than Mekhilta’s, but on the other hand it still retains a certain amount of rabbinic esotericism in some of its more complicated exegeses. In relation to the notion that PRK includes popular elements, I want to consider Galit Hasan-Rokem’s work on the existence of certain popular narrative dialogues within Leviticus Rabbah. Hasan-Rokem rejects the notion that these popular elements may be understood as tools used by the rabbinic authorities to attract a popular audience. Instead she suggests that rabbinic texts are far more embedded in real social lives than we give them credit for, and that they act as ethnographies, recording a wide range of experience of many different social groups.40 This suggestion is fresh and bold, and helps us question existing presumptions about rabbinic texts. However, with regard to PRK’s popular language, I am not sure I can adopt such a position. Here, too, we find popular elements, narratives told in Aramaic that seem to be recorded for the sake of recording. But elsewhere in PRK we also find a kind of “reaching out” quality to the language, a speech that is not so much popular in its origins, as it seems to be popular in its intended destination. There is the direct, intimate, beseeching speech of God, and there are flatteries and indulgences and just plain comforting words all of which seem to be working hard at the project of persuasion or conversion, trying to win someone over to something. Our first mashal’s image of a God trying to win the hand of his people in marriage is an apt metaphor. PRK may indeed faithfully record popular elements, and it may do so for ethnographic reasons, as Hasan-Rokem suggests, but as a whole the work also has a more rhetorical purpose than ethnography.41 Ultimately it is this “reaching out” quality which leads me to place PRK far toward the synagogue side of the continuum. We do not know exactly how PRK was used, whether as a pre-sermon sourcebook or a post-sermon record or simply as a midrashic work created and edited by those involved in some way in homiletical work. What we do know is that some rabbinic preaching was taking place during this period. Jerome, who flourished in the fourth and early fifth centuries, speaks of a popular

commentary not on Scripture, but on the calendar. Neusner, The Plan and Program of Pesiqta deRab Kahana, 164–165. 40 Hasan-Rokem, Tales of the Neighborhood, 10–11. 41 Note that some of these differences may be due to our differing textual material; Hasan-Rokem focuses on Leviticus Rabbah.

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preaching done by rabbis to great applause and appreciation.42 Certain rabbinic statements also indicate that people would come in masses to hear well-known rabbinic preachers, that there was a preference for aggadic topics over halakhic ones, and that the petihta was at least sometimes used as a sermonic form.43 We also know of the names of some of the most important preachers, R. Yohanan, R. Abbahu and R. Shmuel b. Nahman, all of whom flourished during the third and fourth centuries. Again, we cannot determine exactly how PRK fits into this homiletical picture. What we can do is address the question indirectly, through an analysis of the nature of PRK’s language and its place in history. In chapter 3, I will highlight some of the ways in which PRK manages to speak in a live contemporary homiletical voice despite its deep rootedness in the biblical text. Through the comparison to tannaitic midrashim in chapters 5 and 6, I will show that PRK, even in its most esoteric moments, is still more accessible and popular and non-intellectual in its style than the tannaitic midrashim, so that the direction of movement can be seen to be toward the popular. And finally, through an account of the historical context, I will show that it makes historical sense to think that PRK has some relationship to the synagogue as this is a time of increased rabbinic involvement in that popular institution, a time of renowned rabbinic preachers, and a time of generally increased rabbinic interest in the nonrabbinic Jewish population. Some of the strongest arguments for PRK’s homiletical nature and persuasive goals are made by the texts themselves. While PRK’s texts are rarely explicit about their own project, they speak about it in other ways, in the ways that they retell and reshape the biblical stories in their own image. We began this introduction with one example of such a reading of a PRK text, 12.11, with its image of God’s wooing of the Israelites through indulgent treats. The following chapter will explore the methodology of reading involved in such an understanding of the PRK text as self-referential, and offer other examples of such textual readings.

42 Jerome, In Ezekiel 33, 33, as cited in Lee Levine, The Ancient Synagogue: The First Thousand Years (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000), 462. 43 On masses coming to hear sermons: JT Horayot 3, 7, 48b and JT Bava Metzia 2, 13, 8d. On the preference for aggadah: BT Sotah 40a. On the use of the petihta in a sermon: LR 3.6. We occasionally hear the reaction of an audience to a sermon, whether it is laughing (GR 28.3) or falling asleep (Song of Songs Rabbah 1.15) or becoming restless and leaving (JT Peah 8, 9, 21b). See Joseph Heinemann, “Preaching,” EJ 13: 994–998.

CHAPTER TWO

METHODOLOGICAL INTRODUCTION: ON THE SELFREFERENTIAL READING OF PRK TEXTS Chapter One began with a mashal that compared God to a king courting a noblewoman. I read this mashal as referring to PRK’s own work of courting, the courting of the many non-rabbinic Jews of its time. In this chapter, I will offer a methodology for reading midrashim in this way, for reading them as a window into the rabbis’ own self-conception. I will also offer two other examples of such readings, and use them as a way to let the texts introduce their own themes and concerns. That is, this chapter is a second introduction of sorts, a textual introduction. Many of the issues discussed in an abstract way in the previous chapter, such as persuasion, intimacy, indulgence, and historical change, will be re-introduced here through a textual lens, showing that these themes are not just my idea of what PRK is about, but also the way the rabbis themselves describe their own project. This method of reading texts as reflective of their authors’ processes is one that I learned from David Stern. Applying the literary theory of an “implied reader” to the mashal, Stern shows that midrashic texts often tell us something about the midrashic process of interpretation.1 Thus, for instance, the pedagogue who sits and sings and plays on his flute in reaction to (and in interpretation of ) his master’s choice of punishment for his son, represents the “paradoxical yet triumphant” nature of the biblical interpretation which is characteristic of such midrashic texts.2 Below I will apply this method of reading to PRK texts, but with one important difference. Stern sees the characters in his midrashim as “implied interpreter”

1 David Stern, Parables, 86–93. His method is based on the work of the following literary theorists: Wayne Booth, The Rhetoric of Fiction (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1963); Gerald Prince, “Introduction to the Study of the Narratee,” in Reader-Response Criticism (ed. Jane P. Tompkins; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980), 7–25; Naomi Schor, “Fiction as Interpretation/Interpretation as Fiction,” in The Reader in the Text: Essays on Audience and Interpretation (ed. Susan R. Suleiman and Inge Crosman; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980), 165–182; and Wolfgang Iser, The Implied Reader: Patterns of Communication in Prose Fiction from Bunyan to Beckett (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978). 2 Stern, Parables, 87.

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figures who tell us something specifically about the midrash’s exegetical process. My analysis of PRK texts, on the other hand, will find the issues reflected in these midrashim to be of a more homiletical and rhetorical nature, questions of persuasion, not questions of interpretation. This method of self-reflexive reading has also been influenced by the work of other scholars. Christine Hayes makes use of expressive criticism and psychoanalytic theory to show that certain Talmudic texts are a window into the thoughts and anxieties of their rabbinic authors.3 Similarly, Fraade shows how the rabbis, in writing about the biblical priests’ roles in the temple, were actually writing about their own contemporary roles as rabbis.4 And in her study of early Christian gnosticism, Elaine Pagels finds that early Christian writers used Jesus to “think with,” that the arguments about Jesus’ corporeal resurrection about monotheism were actually arguments concerning their own roles and authority (e.g. “one God, one bishop”).5 While this self-reflexivity may be characteristic of a variety of rabbinic and non-rabbinic texts, there is something about the rabbinic mashal which is especially conducive to self-reflexivity. First, the mashal’s two-tiered design of mashal and then parallel nimshal creates more nonexegetical space in which to make such self-reflexive statements. That is, the mashal is not one step removed from the biblical text, as are most commentaries, but two steps, leaving more room and making it easier to conceal a self-reflexive statement, which, by its nature, concerns the rabbis, not the Bible. Second, the mashal’s generic archetypal language creates a paradigm which, while officially filled by the biblical nimshal, is also easily applied to other realms, including the self-reflexive one of the rabbis’ own project in creating such midrashim. The mashal proper, that is, the initial parable, concerns a generic king and his wife and children and the various archetypal scenarios that take place in that non-specific fictive realm, such as the anger of the husband or father. Eventually, the nimshal applies the

3 Christine E. Hayes, “Displaced Self-Perceptions: The Deployment of Minim and Romans in B. Sanhedrin 90b–91a,” in Religious and Ethnic Communities, 249–289. 4 Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary, 69–121. 5 Elaine Pagels, The Gnostic Gospels (New York: Vintage Books, 1979). Other clear textual examples of this phenomenon include the way in which Philo depicts Moses as the law-giver, and the way in which Paul depicts Jesus as the head of the body of his followers, both using their depictions of these previous leaders as a way to talk about their own leadership roles. As we will see, the same is true for the rabbis’ depiction of the biblical figures in PRK.

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mashal to specific biblical characters and events, but the generic, archetypal nature of the language of the mashal itself still exists as its own entity within the midrash. The nimshal’s assignment of the paradigm to one particular biblical text and event, may be seen not as the solution to the mashal but as merely an example of such an application, with the implication that other applications are equally plausible. A mashal may thus have an explicit biblical application and an additional implicit rabbinic application to contemporary rabbinic issues, especially those related to the creation of these very midrashim. Boyarin’s reading of the mashal is helpful here, as well, although with a slight shift. He, too, points out the paradigmatic language of the mashal, seeing it as a pattern of meaning and “an anonymous cultural code.”6 However, he understands this code to come not from the rabbis’ own world and creative processes, but from the biblical world. The mashal is “a raising of consciousness of the unstated tropics of the biblical history. It is the schematic statement of the icons of the structures of events in the literary tradition, the Prophets and Writings.”7 In the meshalim we will see below, there do seem to be certain elements of the mashal that come from the worldview of the Prophets and the Writings. However, what I argue is that the choice of those elements, since they are not determined by the parashah text, is itself an indication of rabbinic creativity. Moreover, in many instances, there are also certain new elements to these paradigmatic stories, elements which can be explained neither through reference to prophetic patterns nor to biblical events, but seem to point instead to the rabbis themselves and their new midrashic project. Method Such an external self-reflexive reading requires proof. After all, the biblical nimshal is explicitly given in the midrash, while the rabbinic one is not. The comparisons to contemporary Christian texts in the final chapters of this book will pose the same problem; Christian preachers speak explicitly about themselves and their relationship to their audience, whereas the rabbis only speak of biblical characters, of the biblical God, Moses and Israel. I argue throughout the book that such discussions of biblical characters should be understood as a way for the rabbis to speak about 6 7

Boyarin, Intertextuality, 88. Boyarin, Intertextuality, 90.

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themselves and their own relationship to their audience, but again, such readings, inexplicit as they are, require some justification. Here I will offer a methodology for reading PRK (and presumably other midrashic) texts in this self-reflexive way. The basic idea is nicely conceptualized by Christine Hayes who points to “divergence” from expected exegetical norms in the Talmud as the criterion for the introduction of extra-textual historical considerations in her work.8 I would posit a similar method for our texts with respect to the Bible; if a midrashic text includes elements which are unforeseeable based on a simple reading of the parashah text, then there is warrant to look elsewhere, outside the Bible, for an understanding of the midrashic text, including to the rabbinic conception of the midrashic project itself. Note that the change or difference from the parashah text does not need to be a contradiction to be worthy of note; indeed, contradictions of the biblical text are rare, as the midrash does formally present itself as a commentary.9 Rather, the type of differences which are to be noted are differences of emphasis or tone between the parashah text and the midrashic one. The goal is to highlight what has changed by asking which elements of the midrash are unforeseen by the parashah text; these changes do not create an impossible interpretation of the Bible, but rather one which highlights issues which played little role in the biblical text, plays down those issues which seem prominent in the biblical text, or adopts a slightly different tone or theological stance. Note that some of these changes in emphasis or tone take place as a result of the darshan’s choice of secondary verse; even here, the change should not be understood as exegetically determined, since in PRK, as we will see, secondary verses, especially petihta verses, are generally quite distant and undetermined by the parashah text. Such changes in emphasis and tone can be found frequently in both meshalim and other types of midrashic texts in PRK, and they make up the bulk of the evidence for non-exegetical self-reflexive readings. There is, however, also another type of change, one found only in the mashal form and even there, infrequently, but one which carries a great deal more significance. This change is not one of emphasis, but a more complete change, the addition of an element that is so completely outside of the biblical world that it is never translated into the biblical idiom of the

8

Hayes, Between the Babylonian and Palestinian Talmuds, 19. One unusual example of such a contradiction of the biblical text is PRK 9.7 which implies that the Israelites did not commit the sin of the Golden Calf. 9

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nimshal, but remains unparalleled in the generic world of the mashal. Such an element of a mashal, an element with no biblical parallel in the nimshal, can serve as a great window into the rabbinic mind, helping to highlight the key non-exegetical issue that the rabbis have introduced from their own concerns. In each textual example below, we will see one example of such an element. Once such clues have been noted—both the common changes in emphasis and the less common unparalleled mashal elements—then the work of reading the midrash begins. The first task can be understood as the disentangling of exegetical from non-exegetical issues; the second task is the translation of non-exegetical issues into the framework of the rabbinic self-conception of the process of creating such midrashim. Here, it should be noted, there is some advantage over the historical readings proposed by Hayes and other rabbinics scholars for their non-exegetical factors. Hayes calls such historical factors “external,” but the issues proposed here are very much “internal” to the midrash itself, a kind of re-enactment of the process of creating the midrash itself.10 The rabbinic self-conception that emerges from such readings is rather different from the usual one attributed by scholars to the rabbis. There has been a tendency in some recent scholarship to focus mainly on the rabbis’ intellectual roles as teachers and students and close readers of the Bible.11 The rabbis certainly played these roles, and probably played these roles to the exclusion of most other roles in the tannaitic period.12 However, the PRK texts below offer us a window into a more neglected side of the image of the rabbi, one that may have taken on new prominence in the amoraic period, their roles as preachers and caretakers of the community. David Stern finds an “implied interpreter” rabbinic figure in the meshalim he investigates, but below I will uncover not an implied interpreter or an implied teacher, but an implied caretaker, an implied woo-er, an implied preacher. The non-exegetical clues help to locate the presence of a self-reflexive moment in a mashal, and they help to prove its existence. At the same time, 10

Hayes, Between the Babylonian and Palestinian Talmuds, 3–4. See for instance Fraade’s argument in chapter 3 of his From Tradition to Commentary that the rabbis interpret back into the Deuteronomy text their own intellectual role as teachers and judges. See also Boyarin’s Intertextuality book and the image of the rabbi that emerges from it, as one primarily engaged in the intellectual activity of reading. 12 On the shift of the third century and beyond in the rabbinic movement, see Levine, The Rabbinic Class and other historians to be discussed in detail in chapter 7. 11

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however, I want to emphasize that such clues and signs are not essential for any particular argument as midrash is famously overdetermined so that exegetical and non-exegetical factors can both play a role simultaneously.13 That is, even when we can locate clearly the exegetical factors involved in the creation of a midrash, we do not need to rule out the presence of other factors, as most often, all types of factors work together seamlessly in a midrash. Proving the existence of such non-exegetical factors is then much more difficult, often coming down to the question of how well the non-exegetical reading fits the midrashic text. In the examples below, I will make an effort to point to the kinds of textual clues discussed above as a way to strengthen my claim that such self-reflexive moments do exist in these meshalim. At the same time, however, in the end, the evaluation of such readings will always come down to the question of goodness of fit. Example A: PRK 1.1 I have come to my garden, my own, my bride (Song 5:1). R. Azariah said in the name of R. Simon: It is like a king who got angry with [his] lady, banished her and sent her out of his palace. After some time, he wished to bring her back. She said: Let him do something new for me, and then he may bring me back. So, too, in the past, the Holy One blessed be He used to accept sacrifices from above, The Lord smelled the pleasing odor (Gen 8:21). But now, He accepts [sacrifices] from below, I have come to my garden, my own, my bride (Song 5:1).

This mashal appears at the beginning of the first petihta of the first piska of PRK, a piska on the synagogue reading for the holiday of Hanukkah. This reading, Numbers 7, concerns the gifts brought by the tribal chieftains at the consecration of the tabernacle. The petihta begins with a distant petihta verse from the Song of Songs, “I have come to my garden, my own, my bride,” and winds its way eventually to the parashah verse, “On the day that Moses finished setting up the Tabernacle” (Num 7:1). While this parashah verse is not cited in this first mashal, the theme of the tabernacle is already present and connected to the Song of Songs verse’s “my garden.”

13

For a discussion of these issues in relation to Hayes’ work, see Rachel Anisfeld, “Toward a More Complete View of Talmudic Hermeneutics: A Review of Christine Hayes’ Between the Babylonian and Palestinian Talmuds: Accounting for Halakhic Difference in Selected Sugyot from Tractate Avodah Zarah,” Prooftexts 19 (1999): 262–291.

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The mashal tells a story about a king who was angry with his wife, banished her from the palace and then later changed his mind and wished her to return. She, however, refused to return unless he did something new for her. The parallel is drawn in the nimshal to God as the king and Israel as the wife. The new thing that God offers Israel when He wishes her to return is an increase in intimacy. Whereas in the past, at the time immediately after the flood, God remained above while accepting sacrifices, merely smelling them from His place in the sky, now, presumably with the erection of the tabernacle, his “garden,” He actually comes down to earth to accept sacrifices. What are some of the differences between the midrash and the parashah text concerning the consecration of the tabernacle? To begin with the changes in emphasis, consider first the notion of intimacy. Biblically, the tabernacle does imply a certain intimacy between God and Israel; from its inception, the idea was to have God “dwell” among the people in the tabernacle (Ex 25:8). At the same time, the biblical notion of God’s presence among the people in the tabernacle, while intimate, is also tinged with a sense of awe and distance. Thus, for instance, at the end of Exodus when the tabernacle is completed, the Bible recounts that Moses could not enter the tabernacle when the presence of God filled it, and still later, when the tabernacle is being consecrated in Leviticus, the divine presence appears as a consuming fire which frightens the people and ends up consuming those who, like the two sons of Aaron, come too close (Lev 9–10). The particular portion under discussion in this petihta, Numbers 7, does include a final verse about God’s intimate speech to Moses from between the cherubs above the Ark in the tabernacle, but the intimacy still has a tinge of awesomeness and is confined solely to Moses. Moreover, most of that chapter deals with the more mundane detailing of the chieftains’ gifts. The mashal’s intimacy is slightly different. For one thing, it is not tinged with awe. There is no sense in the mashal that closeness to God is dangerous in any way; God offers such intimacy as an enticement to the returning wife, a wife who, it should be noted, fears her husband so little that she has the presence of mind to make demands of him upon her return. Moreover, while the biblical intimacy feels formal and communal, the mashal’s intimacy is of an extremely loving, personal nature, that of a husband and wife. The Song of Songs verse plays a strong role in the creation of this feeling of personal intimacy in the midrash— through the verse’s “I” voice, its statement of relationship and ownership,

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“my garden, my own, my bride,” its description of the lover’s arrival (“I have come”), and its implication of a context of personal erotic love. The midrashic intimacy born out of the Song of Songs verse and the mashal’s comparison to a husband and wife are of a different order than the intimacy of the biblical tabernacle with its consuming fire and voice between the cherubs. And this midrashic intimacy is understood to be the nature of the relationship not only between God and Moses but also between God and all of Israel. Does the strong role of the Song of Songs verse make this intimacy an exegetical characteristic rather than one giving us some insight into the darshan’s worldview? No. The Song of Songs verse is itself a choice. The given parashah verse is the Numbers verse about the tabernacle, and the darshan could have chosen any verse he wanted to relate to this Numbers verse. His choice of the Song of Songs verse shows that he wanted to create a particular type of climate, a climate of personal intimacy. The mashal creates a sense of intimacy, and it also thematizes the issue of intimacy as a desirable commodity that increases over time; in the past, God only smelled from above, but now He descends to earth. This notion of an increase in intimacy over time is not necessarily at odds with biblical conceptions; the tabernacle does seem to imply a greater presence of God on earth. At the same time, however, the Bible does not make pronouncements and comparisons with clear linear movements, as the midrash does with its “in the past, but now” expression. Indeed, the Bible’s tale of intimacy is a more fuzzy one with many ups and downs; Adam sins, and gets thrown out of the garden; God speaks directly to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob but to Joseph only in dreams, and then again to Moses face to face. The midrash’s assertion of an increase in intimacy over time is thus a particular way of reading a particular set of events, and implies some non-exegetical influence. Another change in emphasis in our mashal concerns the importance of novelty. To be sure, the consecration of the tabernacle in Numbers 7 is a way of inaugurating the tabernacle as a new entity. But the word “new” and the concept of novelty are never explicitly mentioned. The difference is that in the midrash the notion of novelty as a concept is explicitly stated and brought to the fore with the woman’s request for “something new” and the nimshal’s reference to a change from the past to the present. Moreover, and here we veer into the other kind of more significant change, the woman’s request for “something new” is a change because it is done by

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the woman; her ability to speak and make demands before the king has no biblical parallel. Indeed, the entire negotiation between the man and the woman in the mashal is not given a biblical parallel in the nimshal. The mashal tells the story of an angry husband trying to get his wife back and the nimshal simply picks up after the woman’s request, telling of God’s response of an increase in intimacy. What I want to suggest is that the nimshal does not offer a parallel to the woman’s demand because there is no biblical parallel. Yes, the context of an angry husband who banishes his wife and then wishes her to return is a common prophetic paradigm, and seems to be the basis of the mashal’s story here.14 However, even in His moments of comfort, God remains all-powerful in the Prophets, and Israel is never given the power to make demands concerning her return. She is always a subject, first a subject of anger, and then a subject of comfort. Similarly, in the biblical stories, God is angry with humans for the sin of the Garden of Eden or the Golden Calf, and he reacts in anger and does something akin to banishment from a palace. But in all these situations, the rapprochement happens because God is somehow appeased. It is God who retains the power to allow or forbid the return, and it is man who must somehow come crawling back. Here, in the midrash, there is a shocking change in power relations. The woman—in this regard, there is no Israel parallel—makes demands, sets the terms of her return as a powerful agent controlling her own destiny, and God, on the other hand, is beseeching and accommodating; the combination of the mashal and nimshal stories show that He accedes to the woman’s conditions of return, offering what it takes to get her back. The absence of any mention of sin on the woman’s part gives her even more power in the narrative as she does not need to play the humble conciliatory role of a repentant. These are some of the clues in the midrash that point to the need for a non-exegetical, rabbinically oriented reading. This particular mashal lends itself particularly easily to a non-biblical application as both its mashal and its nimshal are not assigned to a particular historical period or event in the Bible, but allowed to remain in a vague, atemporal zone. As noted above, the mashal’s story of an angry king who recants and a woman who demands something new is not assigned a biblical parallel or even a biblical time-period. Does the anger refer to the Garden of Eden, the Golden Calf, or the many angry periods during the time of the prophets?

14

See above discussion of Boyarin, Intertextuality, 90.

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The mashal is naturally vague and abstract, but strangely enough, in this midrash, the nimshal is also rather vague about its biblical assignment, speaking in the abstract relative terms of “in the past” and “now” without making clear which periods the terms refer to. A verse from the aftermath of the flood is brought for the “past” of a distant God, but the verse is a very general one about smelling from below and the post-flood period is a long one. The “now” presumably refers to the present of the tabernacle, since that is the parashah under discussion and since the change referred to is God’s descent to earth to accept sacrifices. However, the only verse cited for “now” is the non-historical abstract one of the Song of Songs so that the feeling of temporal vagueness remains. All of this non-specificity and vagueness with regard to the time-period of this mashal, while unusual in some ways, is actually an extreme example of the usual atemporal nature of the mashal’s language, a language which naturally lends itself to application to any number of historical periods, including the present of the rabbis themselves. Indeed, read in this way, this mashal tells the story of the kind of work the rabbis imagine themselves to be involved with in the creation of this midrash and others like it in PRK. Like the king of the mashal, they are trying to woo the people back to the palace, to convince them to “return” to a more Jewish life in the rabbinic way. The power dynamic is unusual here because it expresses how the rabbis feel in relation to their audiences. They are eager to accommodate and to please and to grant any requests made in order to woo the people back. This need to please gives the people a great deal of power, and consciously or unconsciously the power dynamic gets expressed in the way the rabbis tell stories. The need to please also leads to the indulgence of the story, the fact that mention of sin is omitted and all responsibility for the fight seems to land on the king’s head, not the woman’s. Intimacy is also a tool for wooing the people, and it is thematized as such a tool in this mashal; the woman tells us what it will take to win her return, something new, and the response is an increase in intimacy. Intimacy, or at least an increase in intimacy is the new item being offered to win her back. What is this increase in intimacy in relation to the PRK project other than intimate midrashim exactly like this one? In other words, the midrash tells us the origins and purpose of its own conception; it was created with all its special intimacy as a response to pressure from the people for something new to entice them back. The fact that this intimacy is marked as something new in this mashal shows an awareness that these PRK midrashim are creating

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a new more intimate genre of midrash than had ever existed before. As we will see, comparisons to tannaitic midrash confirm this sense of the novelty of PRK’s intimate style. The “in the past” versus “now” expression of our mashal points to an awareness on the part of the darshan of a dramatic historical change taking place. In the mashal this change is explicitly said to refer to the nature of God’s presence on earth. Read in relation to the PRK midrashic project itself, however, it can also be understood to refer to the midrashic depiction of God’s intimacy, that is, to the increase in intimate depictions of God in PRK midrashim when compared to earlier tannaitic midrashim. But why intimacy? Why didn’t the darshanim of PRK create a new midrash of great awe? Intimacy is not just something new; it is the new item of the time, the religious currency of the time. If the rabbis want to keep up with the times, renew their Judaism in a way that will entice the people, then what they have to offer the people is something that sounds contemporary. Intimate language is indeed the religious currency of the time throughout the Christian Roman Empire. Peter Brown describes the late antique world as one in which there was a great search for a more personal religion, for a feeling of intimacy in the large cosmopolitan cities of the Roman Empire.15 Christianity provided just such a feeling and just such a God with its story of a God who came down to earth to be a human for a certain amount of time. This idea will be more fully discussed in chapters seven and eight, but for now it should be noted that our mashal’s description of a God who increases His intimacy by coming down to earth to be in His garden is strikingly similar to this Christian notion of incarnation, and probably with good reason. The rabbis were offering their audiences a language of intimacy as the enticing language of the times. The idea of novelty itself and the great value attached to “something new” in this mashal is probably also a symptom of its times. Christianity naturally had the appeal of a “new” religion, and had to work hard for its part to demonstrate that it was also old, that it also partook of the traditional and the familiar.16 Rabbinic Judaism, on the other hand, was naturally part of an “old” religion, and if it was to compete in the same

15 Peter Brown, The World of Late Antiquity A.D. 150–750 (New York: W. W. Norton and Co., 1971), 49–68. For a fuller discussion, see chapter 7. 16 See Cameron, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire, 130.

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marketplace as Christianity, had to work hard to demonstrate that it, too, was “something new.” This mashal presents a picture of a religion which does include some bold new ideas—an increase in God’s intimacy, an omission of sin and personal responsibility as a theme in the ongoing relationship between God and Israel, and a surprising reversal of power in that relationship. This mashal is the beginning of the first petihta of the first parashah of PRK. While there is some debate over whether this parashah was originally the first, it still seems significant that any parashah would begin in this way, with a blueprint description of the goals and innovations of the collection as a whole.17 As with all changes, however, there is inevitably some ambivalence about these new ideas. In the passages that follow our mashal, the remainder of the petihta expresses just such ambivalence, taking a step back from the more radical claims of the mashal and retreating to a more traditional position: R. Isaac said: It is written: The righteous shall inherit the land (Ps 37:29)—and the wicked people, where are they? Flying in the air? Rather, what does it mean, [The righteous shall inherit the land] and abide [veyeshkenu] forever in it (Ps 37:29)? They cause the divine presence to abide [ yashkinu shekhinah] on earth. The essence of the divine presence was originally in the lower world, and once the first human being, Adam, sinned, it moved away to the first firmament. The generation of Enosh arose and sinned—it moved away from the first to the second firmament . . . Parallel to them arose seven righteous people who brought it down to the earth. Abraham our father arose and merited to bring it down from the seventh to the sixth . . . Moses arose and merited to bring it to earth. Therefore it says, On the day that Moses finished setting up the Tabernacle (Num 7:1).

This midrash has a very different theological stance than the first mashal of the petihta. Here humans have moral responsibility for God’s presence on earth. God moves further away as a result of sin, and steps closer as a result of good deeds. There is no wooing and no accommodating going on here and Israel cannot make demands; God decides when to be distant or intimate, and it is based on human conduct. The sense of indulgence is gone and gone is the sense of novelty concerning the intimacy of God’s presence on earth; there is an insistence here that God’s presence was originally down in this lower world so that there is really nothing

17

For a discussion of this debate, see the textual introduction to the appendix.

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new here to celebrate.18 The traditional theology has been restored. This midrash seems to offer a counter-point to the claims of the first part of the petihta, demonstrating just how radical and fraught with tension they must have been at the time. Example B: PRK 12.3 R. Isaac began a proem: Sustain me with raisin cakes, refresh me with apples for I am sick with love (Song 2:5) . . .19 Another interpretation: For I am sick with love: R. Levi said: It is like the son of a king who recovered from an illness. His pedagogue20 said: Let him go off to school. But the king said: My son’s healthy glow21 has not yet returned since his illness, and he is going to go off to school? Rather, let my son luxuriate22 for two or three months with food and drink, and after that, he will go to school.

18 This midrash’s relationship to Christian notions of incarnation will be considered in chapter 8. 19 The JPS translation reads “For I am faint with love.” I prefer the word “sick” as a translation for the Hebrew kholat here as the midrash deals with sickness. 20 The rabbinic term pedagogue is borrowed from the Greek παιδαγωγός which refers not to a teacher, as in modern usage, but to a male slave charged with the early care and conduct of a child in Greco-Roman society. Together with the nurse-maid, the pedagogue (who was also called a nurse, nutritor, tropheus) and the child formed a kind of closeknit surrogate family which often had closer ties than the biological family. See Bauer’s translation of the Greek term. Walter Bauer, A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature (trans. and adapt. William F. Arndt and F. Wilbur Gingrich; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1959; ed. and rev. Frederick Danker, 2000), 603. See also the discussion of family life and education by Paul Veyne, “The Roman Empire,” A History of Private Life from Rome to Byzantium (ed. Paul Veyne and trans. Arthur Goldhammer; Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1987), 12–87; and Stern, Parables, 33. Although the pedagogue was not a formal teacher in school, he was associated with schooling and learning, as he was responsible first, for teaching the child how to read, and second, for bringing the child to and from school. It may be in relation specifically to this latter task that our midrash refers to the pedagogue. 21 Zivo. Braude and Kapstein translate: “look of good health.” William G. Braude and Israel J. Kapstein, trans., Pesikta de-Rab Kahana: R. Kahana’s Compilation of Discourses for Sabbaths and Festal Days (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 2002), 307. Sokoloff has “feature, splendor, appearance” as the general translation for the word ziv. Michael Sokoloff, A Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Aramaic of the Byzantine Period, Second Edition (Ramat Gan, Israel and Baltimore: Bar Ilan University Press and Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002), 175. Jastrow translates this particular use of ziv as “good looks, bloom of health.” Marcus Jastrow, Dictionary of the Targumim, Talmud Babli, Yerushalmi and Midrashic Literature (Philadelphia, 1903; New York: Judaic Press, 1971, 1985), 392. 22 Yetaden. This translation is based on Jonas Greenfield’s study of the root ‫ ﬠדנ‬in biblical and cognate language texts. He finds that the word is generally used for “luxuriousness, voluptuousness, lubrication, freshening.” He also points to a passage in Sifre Deut which puts together the word mefankim, “spoil,” with the word me’adnim. This con-

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So, too, when the Israelites left Egypt, they were worthy of receiving the Torah, but there were among them people with blemishes from the forced labor in mortar and bricks. The Holy One blessed be He said: My sons’ healthy glow has not yet fully returned from their forced labor in mortar and bricks, and they are going to receive the Torah? Rather, let my sons luxuriate for two or three months with the well and the manna and the quail,23 and after that, they will receive the Torah. When? On the third new moon (Ex 19:1).

This petihta is from the piska on the synagogue reading for the holiday of Shavu’ot, the telling of the story of Mount Sinai, beginning with Exodus 19, “On the third new moon.” The petihta verse cited at the outset of the petihta is from the Song of Songs, “Sustain me with raisin cakes, refresh me with apples for I am sick with love.” The petihta begins with a number of short interpretations of this verse, and then moves on to the mashal cited above which concludes the petihta, leading directly to the parashah verse. The mashal offers an interpretation of both the petihta and the parashah verses, understanding the Song of Songs verse’s “sick with love” phrase as a reference to the Israelites after they left Egypt, and using this sickness as an explanation for the delay in the giving of the Torah till the “third new moon.” Like a father who delays his sick child’s return to school, explains the mashal, God wanted to wait to give the Torah until the people had fully recovered from the physical ailments remaining from their hard labors in Egypt, in the meantime offering them a luxurious sustenance of raisin-cakes and apples. What are the new elements in this mashal when compared to the parashah verse concerning the Mount Sinai experience? Many of the changes are a result of the darshan’s choice of the Song of Songs petihta verse. First, there is the notion of sickness, stemming from the phrase, “for I am sick with love.” Were the Israelites sick preceding Mount Sinai? One of the exegetical points made by this midrash is the connection between Sinai and Egypt implied by the time reference, “On the third new moon nection supports our understanding of this midrash as referring to a kind of indulgence on God’s part. Sifre Deut 306 (ed. Finkelstein, p. 331). Jonas Greenfield, “A Touch of Eden,” Hommages et Opera Minora IX: Orientalia J. Duchesne-Guillemin Emerito Oblata (Leiden: Brill, 1984), 219–224. 23 Water, manna and quail are indeed mentioned in the Bible as being given between the time of the exodus and the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai. Although there is no explicit mention of a well during this period, there are two stories about the giving of water, Ex 15:22–26 and Ex 17:1–7. The story of the giving of the manna and quail is told in Ex 16:11–27. For a later well story, see Num 21:27–28.

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after the Israelites had gone forth from Egypt” (Ex 19:1). The midrash suggests that the link between Sinai and Egypt is a link of the physical after-effects of hard labor, a remaining physical sickness. This notion of a sick needy Israel is a change in emphasis from the biblical text. While it is not illogical to presume that Israel remained weak from Egyptian slavery, the Bible does not specify such sickness; on the contrary, the people are portrayed rather unsympathetically as whining ingrates. The change to an image of sickly neediness is a change in attitude from rebuke to sympathy and indulgence. Another change in emphasis, also an effect of the Song of Songs verse, concerns the themes of love and intimacy in the midrash. In response to the sickly needy Israelites the mashal creates a gentle, loving, intimate care-taking father image for a God. The God of Exodus cannot easily or consistently be described in any of those terms, but rather as awesome and distant, revealing Himself in a cloud of fire, smoke and thunder on Mount Sinai.24 The contrast between such a God and the father who is so concerned about his child’s welfare that he refuses to send his child back to school until he is fully recovered from illness is striking. God’s gentle concern for His people in this mashal is also expressed through another new emphasis in this midrash, the notion of God’s responsiveness to His people. In the Bible there is no indication that the decision to give the Torah “On the third new moon” was made in any way other than by divine fiat. The mashal, on the other hand, turns the thirdness of the date into a sign of God’s caring responsiveness to the people’s sickly needs. On occasion, when we do see God responding to the people of Israel in the Bible, it is usually a response of anger at their behavior or their complaints; even the giving of food and drink is portrayed as a response to the people’s “complaints.”25 The responsiveness of the mashal’s God, by contrast, is a concerned, loving anticipatory response, not angry but soft and gentle and caring. The notion of “luxury” is another new emphasis in the midrash. The food and drink given to the Israelites in the desert, while portrayed as miraculous and good-tasting, are not seen as luxurious treats, but as basic necessities, a response to the people’s concerns about dying of starvation and thirst in the desert (Ex 16). Even the quail, given as a response 24

The one exception to this generally awesome description of God at Sinai is the image of God bearing Israel “on eagles’ wings.” See Exodus 19:4 for this image, and the rest of the chapter for the more awesome images of fire and thunder. 25 See for instance Ex 16:8.

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to the people’s cries for the luxuries they left in Egypt, is in the end not much of a luxury at all, but leads to God’s angry plague of death (Num 11). The midrash, on the other hand, based partly on the Song of Songs verse’s luxurious notion of “raisin-cakes,” emphasizes the indulgent aspect of God’s provision of food for the people in the desert, using the word yetaden, “luxuriate.” Finally, the equation of Torah to school is another subtle change introduced by the mashal. This equation is a typical rabbinic one, not a biblical one. In the Bible, the giving of the Torah is a time of covenant- and law-making, not a time of study and scholastic activity. Strangely enough, the mashal uses this typical rabbinic equation for the sake of rejecting it or attacking it. Torah is being compared to school, but school is not the chosen alternative, at least for the time being. God rejects the pedagogue’s notion of returning immediately to school in favor of waiting and putting off Torah and school. The traditional rabbinic equation of Torah and study is being used for the sake of undermining its basic assumption that study is the most important religious activity. The rejection of the pedagogue’s position brings us to our next topic, the existence of a change of more radical significance than these changes of emphasis, a new element in the mashal with no biblical parallel at all, the figure of the pedagogue and his argument with God. All of the other characters in the mashal—namely the king and his son—have their biblical parallels in the nimshal, but the pedagogue has none. Indeed the exegetical point of the story as I have summarized it above makes perfect sense without the pedagogue; God, like a king protecting his sick child, wanted to delay the giving of the Torah for a few months. Why is there a need to include a pedagogue figure who argues that the child should go to school right away? There is no exegetical need, but there may be a rhetorical one; the pedagogue symbolizes the counter-voice against which the rabbis consider themselves to be arguing, a counter-voice arguing for the supreme importance of scholastic activity. What the pedagogue figure does is to highlight God’s not-school decision as a choice, a controversial choice; God is not just choosing one alternative, but negating, rejecting the other alternative. The presence of such a counter-voice represents for us the existence of people with opinions like that of the pedagogue. These people may be outsiders or insiders, or they may be these very same rabbis themselves at other moments; there may be inner tension, ambivalence or anxiety about a certain issue. What is clear is that the pedagogue helps to mark the issue which is central to the debate, and that issue is school or not school, or, translated into rabbinic terms, whether

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or not the rabbis should place serious scholastic or intellectual activity as their chief concern. Here we have already started to turn to the question of what these changes and new elements tell us about the rabbis’ self-conception, and their conception of their own project in this aggadic homiletical midrash. I think the mashal has another nimshal in addition to the biblical one about God’s delay of the giving of the Torah. This other nimshal is the rabbinic decision to create a rhetoric of luxury, this type of aggadic homiletical midrash. Like the figs and white bread offered in 12.11 discussed in the previous chapter, here, too, the luxurious raisin-cakes and apples do not represent only the food offered in the desert, but also the luxurious sustenance of this new type of aggadic midrash. The mashal shows some of the concerns and anxieties around the decision to create this type of midrash as opposed to the more rigorous halakhic study. Through the figure of the pedagogue and his argument with the father about the son’s return to school, the midrash highlights the issue of school/not-school as a point of argument and definition. The darshan is staking out his ground here as a non-pedagogue, as one who is not involved in the rigorous scholastic activity of halakhic midrash like that of the tannaim. Instead, the darshan creates a new image of the rabbi, an image of someone who, like God, is a gentle care-taker, offering the luxurious, indulgent, loving rhetoric of this type of aggadic midrash. The mashal is an endorsement of the luxury of intimate and indulgent aggadic midrashim like this one, and a rejection, at least for the time-being, of the scholastic midrashim of a previous generation. Why was school/not-school such a central issue for these rabbis? It is difficult to tell whether the pedagogue represents the rabbis’ own conflicted feelings about creating a non-scholastic luxurious midrash or whether he represents the rabbis’ feelings about how others have tended to view them, their sense that others may have viewed the rabbinic group as overly scholastic. Either way, the issue is a fraught one because of a number of cultural historical factors during this period. First, there is the real shift taking place in the nature of rabbinic midrash during this period, from the more scholarly and halakhically-oriented exegesis of the tannaim to the more accessible and aggadically-oriented exegesis of the amoraim.26 Second, there is the Christian view of the Jews as overly concerned with the “Law.” In a number of early Christian texts, the Pharisees are

26

More on these differentiations in chapters 5 and 6.

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accused of imposing heavy legal burdens and being excessively concerned with legal matters as opposed to matters of love and faith.27 Read in relation to these accusations, our mashal may be an attempt to counter this attack by representing the rabbis as making the opposite choice here, choosing the path of indulgence and love as opposed to their usual path of burdensome Law and study. Third, there is a certain anti-scholastic trend in some Christian writings of the time. Cameron and Auerbach both describe this anti-scholastic trend as part of a general Christian attempt to create a deeply inclusive popular rhetoric and to create the sense that there is no need for the high-class privileges of a classical education in order to enter the new faith.28 Our midrash may reflect the influence of this Christian anti-scholasticism on the rabbis’ own self-definition. The mashal also tells the story of the origins and purpose of its own type of rhetoric. This type of rhetoric emerges at a time of pre-covenant neediness, from the rabbis’ sense that people are not ready during their own time to jump right into the work of it, from their sense that if they are ever to make it to that time of Torah study and covenant, then they must first have a period of luxury and indulgence. This type of rhetoric, assures the darshan, is not forever, but is for the needy present, for the time-being when the people are simply too sick to do serious study. Like the previous midrash, 1.1, this one also understands the rise of its new type of rhetoric as driven by audience pressures. Interestingly enough, however, the audiences and their process of influence are different. In 1.1, the audience is seen as strong and powerful, with the will to stand up to God and make demands if they are to be wooed back; the new rhetoric is an accommodation to their demands. Here in 12.3, the audience is imagined as a weak, sick child, so that the rhetoric of intimacy and indulgence is a gift of care-taking, a response to a need. The rabbis may have indeed designed this new rhetoric as a response both to audience needs and demands. The differences, however, imply that less important than the content of the justification was the process of justifying this new rhetoric as a response to an audience. These midrashim are examples both of this new rhetoric as well as of the new concern with justifying that rhetoric.

27

See for instance Matt 23:4 and Rom 2:17–21. Cameron, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire, 112–113 and Auerbach, “Sermo Humilis.” 28

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The additional contemporary rabbinic nimshal I have just suggested for this mashal has strong corroboration within the petihta itself. Right before this mashal, R. Isaac makes the following statement: For I am sick with love—R. Isaac said: Earlier, when money was available, a person would desire to hear a word of Mishnah and a word of Talmud. Now that money is no longer available, and especially [now] that we are grieving over the [oppressive rule of ] empires, a person desires to hear a word of Scripture and a word of aggadah.

This is an unusual midrashic statement as it makes an explicit connection to the contemporary rabbinic world; normally such connections are hidden and must be unearthed in the manner we have been describing above. In addition to this contemporary connection, R. Isaac’s statement supports our reading of the mashal in the following ways. First, R. Isaac speaks of choosing a type of rhetoric, halakhah or aggadah. Second, he speaks of a historical change in that choice of study material, an “earlier” time when people desired halakhah, and a “now” time when people desire aggadah. Third, he lets us know that this change in rhetoric is related to what people want or desire; it has happened by popular demand. While R. Isaac’s statement is not explicitly related to the mashal, there is a certain parallelism between his statement and that of the mashal. Both have rejected items and preferred items. In the mashal, it is school that is rejected and indulgence that is preferred and in R. Isaac’s statement it is halakhah that is rejected and aggadah that is preferred. R. Isaac’s statement can thus be understood almost as a kind of contemporary alternate nimshal for the mashal, an alternative to the biblical nimshal, a new nimshal that introduces the current rabbinic concerns of the shift from halakhah to aggadah. R. Isaac and the mashal also both deal with a time change. R. Isaac speaks of the change from halakhah to aggadah from the past to the present. And the mashal, or rather, the mashal’s biblical nimshal, speaks of the future change from the present indulgence of manna to the future rigors of the reception of the Torah. R. Isaac and the mashal, then, are parallel in certain ways, but also tell a continuous story, much like the mashal and nimshal of PRK 1.1 above. R. Isaac speaks of past and present, and the mashal and nimshal continue with the present and the future. There is the past of R. Isaac’s statement when people used to happily study Mishnah and Talmud and then the present of R. Isaac’s statement when people became sick and needed something easier, like aggadah. The sickly present then continues in the mashal and nimshal with the indulgence of

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the needy Israelites, and then progresses into the future with the reception of the Torah. Read through the introductory lens of R. Isaac’s statement, the mashal is moving from the rabbinic present of aggadah offered to a needy people to the projected future of a time when the people will return to more rigorous halakhic Torah study. The picture then becomes a kind of circle, with the past and the future both being times of halakhic study, and the all-encompassing present being a time of luxurious indulgence in this type of aggadic midrash. It should be noted that this final movement toward a future of halakhah represents a slight back-sliding in relation to the midrash’s claims with regard to the importance of aggadah. The luxurious aggadah, which was touted as the right choice by God Himself, becomes only a temporary right choice, the right choice for the present until the people are ready for something more rigorous. Whether this was a way of assuaging those who argued that aggadah had no place at all in the rabbinic curriculum is unclear, but it does put limits on aggadah’s value. Conclusion To begin with method, we have seen how the mashal can be read as a window into the rabbis’ conception of their own work in these aggadic homiletical midrashim. The key is to find the points of non-exegetical dissonance, places in the midrash which, when compared to their biblical counterparts, seem either strikingly at odds or at least differently shaded. It is here that we have clear access to the rabbinic mind at work, to the subtle traces of the darshan’s concerns and preoccupations. As we saw above, the mashal is a particularly useful form for finding such biblical divergence because of its two-tiered structure. Among the greatest aids to such a search are the few places where we find that a particular detail of the mashal is not translated into the biblical idiom of the nimshal, but remains orphaned and unparalleled in the archetypal world of the mashal. Such elements, like the pedagogue of 12.3 and the woman’s powerful voice of 1.1, are strong clues, representing for us some of the great issues at stake for the rabbis who created these midrashim. In both texts we also found indications that the midrash was not entirely concerned with the biblical time. In 1.1, the vagueness of the assignment of the mashal to a particular biblical period left it open for other, non-biblical, applications. In 12.3, the mashal had a comfortable alternative rabbinic nimshal because of the contemporary statement made

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by R. Isaac immediately preceding the mashal. Indeed, the concept of an alternative nimshal, while only actually playing out in 12.3, is a good way of summing up the reading project of this chapter, the articulation of an alternative nimshal concerning the rabbis’ own project in PRK. Moving from method to content, what are the central rabbinic points of concern that are highlighted in this way? Some recurrent themes in both texts are the notions of intimacy and indulgence. In 1.1, intimacy is thematized as a valuable wooing tool, and in 12.3 the intimacy emerges from God’s choice of the role of the care-taking father as opposed to the stern pedagogue. In both the intimacy is without the tinge of awe experienced in the Bible; God in these midrashim is much softer and gentler, more responsive and less frightening. The indulgence is expressed in 1.1 in the absence of sin from the mashal’s narrative and in the strange power dynamic of a God who tries to accommodate His people’s desires. In 12.3 indulgence vs. hard work becomes the central point of debate, with the indulgence of a luxurious restful period of “raisin-cake” sustenance becoming the preferred alternative. Both meshalim create a feeling of luxury and indulgence, without any of the harshness of the demanding, commanding authoritarian voice of the biblical God. Both meshalim also show interest in history, in telling a story that has a past and a present (and sometimes a future) that are significantly different from one another. 1.1 tells the story of a present which is more intimate than the past, and 12.3 tells a more complicated story about a past in which halakhic study was preferred, a present in which the luxury of aggadic study is preferred and of a future when the serious rigors of halakhah will return. In both there is a sense of some ultimate goal of reunion. In 1.1, the goal is the return to the palace, which presumably takes place in the near future, right after the increased intimacy brought about in response to the people’s demands for something new. In 12.3, the return is a return to school and to the acceptance of the Torah at Mount Sinai. In both it seems that the road to this union or reunion is paved with intimacy and indulgence. In 1.1, intimacy and indulgence are clearly tools for wooing and persuasion, ways that the husband may entice his wife back to the palace. In 12.3, they are not so much tools of wooing as tools of healing, ways of dealing with the present illness in preparation for a more solid connection in the future. In both cases, I suggested above that these tools of intimacy and indulgence referred to the creation of just such midrashim themselves. It is these intimate, indulgent midrashim that are understood as the preparatory tools for the

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future reunion, for the rabbis’ hoped-for turn or return of the Jews to rabbinic Jewish practice. The process may be viewed as one of healing or as one of persuasion, and the audience may be understood as either extremely needy or extremely demanding (or both), but it is a process which involves the creation of a new sustenance of “raisin-cakes,” the type of intimate, indulgent midrash we find in PRK. The concern for historical change in these midrashim shows an awareness on the part of the darshanim that what they are doing here is new, that there is some fundamental shift taking place in rabbinic ideology in the creation of these midrashim. This awareness needs to be taken seriously, and should be taken as a sign that we should revise our own scholarly understanding of the image of the rabbi. The image of the rabbi is indeed sometimes and in some historical periods mainly that of the pedagogue, the teacher who stands for serious scholastic activity. However, the image of the rabbi in some places and some periods, as here, is explicitly not that of the teacher-pedagogue, nor that of the student or interpreter, but rather that of the preacher, the woo-er, the lover, and the care-taker. The focus of this chapter was my own scholarly methodology of reading these midrashim. The next chapter will consider the rabbis’ method in these midrashim, how the various forms they use work to create a feeling of live contemporary preaching.

PART TWO

PESIKTA DERAV KAHANA PRK ON ITS OWN

CHAPTER THREE

THE FORMS OF PRK’S PREACHING: EXEGESIS TURNED HOMILETICAL Up till now, we have shown that the rabbis talk about their new intimate, indulgent rhetoric, are conscious of its novelty and the purpose and process of creating such a rhetoric. The rhetoric itself, though, has not really been analyzed. Yes, this new way of speaking is like offering good treats to a beloved (12.11) or like the luxurious foods one gives a sick child home from school (12.3), but what exactly are these treats? How do they function in the midrash? How does this “not-school” rhetoric work? How does God come down to earth in these midrashim (1.1)? This chapter deals with these questions, examining the style of rhetoric developed in these midrashim through an analysis of four of its most frequently used forms, the petihta, the mashal, the amar hakadosh barukh hu (“The Holy One blessed be He said”) statement and the interpersonal dialogue. These forms create an atmosphere of intimacy and of live personal interaction and emotional connection. Such a task is not easy; PRK formally functions as exegesis of the biblical text, and, in contrast to contemporary Christian preaching, it rarely mentions contemporary events or people— even the preacher and his audience are not spoken of—but remains firmly rooted in the Scriptural world. Creating a feeling of live, contemporary preaching within these strictures is indeed remarkable, and the subject of this chapter. As we will see, it is through the creative exegesis of a form like the petihta, the telling of personal stories like the meshalim, and the frequent use of direct speech and dialogue that PRK accomplishes this task. These forms are how God comes not just down to earth as in PRK 1.1, but also out of the Bible and into the audience’s hearts. These forms are the homiletical tools of PRK darshanim. The Petihta The petihta or proem is a form which, although it has a few early exemplars in the tannaitic period, first appears regularly in the amoraic Genesis Rabbah, Leviticus Rabbah and our Pesikta deRav Kahana. Its hallmark is what is called the “petihta” verse, a verse from the Prophets or the Writings,

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which is usually not obviously related to the subject of the parashah and which stands at the beginning of the petihta. What follows are various interpretations of this distant petihta verse, concluding with some connection made to the parashah verse, cited at the very end.1 Hermeneutically, the function of the petihta is to make use of a verse from the Prophets or the Writings as a way to shed light on the (usually Torah) parashah verse. Thus for instance, what happens hermeneutically in the petihta PRK 12.3, analyzed in the last chapter, is that the Song of Songs verse, “Sustain me with raisin cakes, refresh me with apples for I am sick with love” helps to explain a basic question which arises out of the parashah verse, “On the third new moon,” namely: Why did God wait till the third month to give the Torah? The petihta answers this question with the aid of the Song of Songs verse, understanding its “sick with love” as a reference to the state of the Israelites upon leaving Egypt, and understanding the sustenance of raisin-cakes and apples as a reference to the need the people had for the luxuries of good food and rest prior to receiving the Torah. In this way, the petihta uses its petihta verse as an interpretative aid in decoding the meaning of the parashah verse. Most petihta’ot can be said to function in a similar way exegetically. Rhetorically, the petihta form has certain benefits. Heinemann has suggested that its upside-down character leads audiences, who know the final parashah verse but don’t know how the preacher will make it there from the distant petihta verse, to an exciting feeling of tension and anticipation.2 Beginning with the distant petihta verse also gives the preacher a great deal of freedom with regard to the choice of topic for his petihta, a chance to reframe the parashah verse as he sees fit. Since there is generally no inherent connection dictating the use of a certain petihta verse for a certain parashah, the darshan can make that decision based on his own vision of the topic and tone of his midrash. He is thereby liberated from adhering to the strictures of the parashah topic by making the midrash one step removed from the parashah through the means of the distant petihta verse. As an example, again, note that in 12.3, the themes of love and sickness

1 There is a large literature on the petihta. For a list of leading works, see Strack and Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash, 243. My analysis relies most heavily on Joseph Heinemann, “The Proem in the Aggadic Midrashim—A Form-Critical Study,” SH 22 (1971): 100–122. 2 Heinemann, “The Proem.”

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that are the main topic of the petihta as a whole emerge not out of the Exodus parashah verse but out of the Song of Songs petihta verse. The petihta verse’s origin in the Prophets or the Writings also has certain rhetorical advantages. These verses tend to be less historically fixed and more abstract than Torah verses, so that they lend themselves more easily to contemporary relevance. Thus, for instance, the Song of Songs verse in 12.3 speaks about love and sickness and raisin-cakes, topics without historical referents, unlike the Exodus verse’s historical account of Mount Sinai.3 This allows the darshan to create a petihta that feels contemporary even though it deals with a specific parashah. Verses from the Prophets and the Writings also tend to be more thematic, abstract, theological, personal and emotional. These tendencies give the darshan an opportunity to create a midrash with greater thematic coherence and with more engaging and accessible topics such as love, hope, repentance and the nature of God. Below is a sample list of petihta verses and their accompanying parashah verses to prove this point: Petihta Verse

Parashah Verse

5.3: Hope deferred sickens the heart, desire realized is a tree of life (Prov 13:12).

This month shall mark for you the beginning of months (Ex 12:2).

4.4: Who is like the wise man, and who knows the meaning of the adage: ‘A man’s wisdom lights up his face, so that his deep discontent is dissembled’? (Ecc 8:1).

This is the ritual law that the Lord has commanded (Num 19:2).

9.1: Your beneficence is like the high mountains; your justice like the great deep; man and beast You deliver, O Lord (Ps 36:7).

When an ox or a sheep or a goat is born, . . . from the eighth day on it shall be acceptable (Lev 22:27).

As Stern has shown, the petihta is a highly organized macro-structure that often includes numerous shorter interpretations.4 Order and symmetry are created within the petihta in a number of ways, but for our purposes, one of the more interesting ways is through the use of repeated phrases 3 Historical prophets are rarely used as petihta verses. This insight was pointed out to me by David Stern. 4 Stern, “Anthology and Polysemy,” especially, “Appendix: On the Composition of the Petihta.”

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as part of a number of different sections of the petihta. Rhetorically, such a repetition of phrases works to drive home the message of the petihta. Often, these repeated phrases are short and pithy and memorable, picking up on a catchy phrase of the petihta verse and transforming it slightly to suit the particular rhetorical aim of this petihta.5 The following petihta provides an example of such a refrain. The refrain and the petihta verse from which it derives are underlined: Who can produce a clean thing out of an unclean one? No one (Job 14:4). 1) For example, Abraham [came] from Terah, Hezekiah from Ahaz, Mordecai from Shimi,6 Israel from the other nations, the next world from this one. Who made it thus, who commanded it [to be] thus, who decreed it thus? Isn’t it the One, the Unique One of the world [i.e. God]? 2) We learned in the Mishnah [Nega’im 8.2]: A bright white spot [of leprosy] which is as big as a bean is unclean. But if the spot has spread all over his body, it is clean. Who made it thus, who commanded it thus, who decreed it thus? Isn’t it the Unique One of the world? 3) We learned in the Mishnah [Hullin 4.3]: If a woman’s fetus dies inside of her womb, and the midwife reaches her arm in and touches him, the midwife is unclean for seven days, but the [pregnant] woman is clean until the fetus comes out . . . Who made it thus, who commanded it thus, who decreed it thus? Isn’t it the Unique One of the world? 4) We learned in the Mishnah: All those who deal with the Red Heifer ritual, from beginning to end, take on an uncleanness of the clothing. And [yet], she herself [the heifer] has the ability to cleanse the unclean?! Rather, the Holy One blessed be He said: I have ordained a statute, I have decreed a decree, and you are not permitted to transgress My decree. This is the ritual law that the Lord has commanded (Num 19:2) (4.1).

In this petihta, the petihta verse, “Who can produce a clean thing from an unclean one? No one [lo ehad ]” is transformed into “Who made it thus, who commanded it thus, who decreed it thus? Isn’t it the One [lo ehad ], the Unique One of the world?” and repeated at the conclusion of each example. The repetition of this phrase turns it into a kind of mantra, bringing home the central message of the petihta, that certain things in life are paradoxical, and can only be explained through reference to God.

5 In this way, they are sometimes used much like maxims, which have always been considered an important element in rhetorical discourse. See Aristotle, The Art of Rhetoric, 2.21, for an ancient view, and for a more contemporary view, see James L. Kinneavy, A Theory of Discourse: The Aims of Discourse (New York: W. W. Norton and Company, 1980), 252, who writes of slogans as the modern equivalent of the maxim. 6 See Esther 2:5.

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Another example of such a mantra is found in PRK 5.7, where the petihta verse, “Hark! My beloved! There he comes, leaping over mountains, bounding over hills” (Song 2:8), is transformed into the following refrain, repeated in three different sections of the petihta: “Since He is desirous of your redemption, He is not looking at your _________ [calculations, idolatry, . . .], but rather, leaping over mountains, bounding over hills.” The message here concerns God’s desire for redemption, so intense that He is ready to leap over any apparent obstacles in His way. This refrain picks up on a felicitous phrase in the petihta verse, “leaping over mountains, bounding over hills.” The repetition of the phrase again works rhetorically to bring home the message in a clear, memorable way to an audience. Such refrains, while not present in all petihta’ot, are also not uncommon; they represent one more way in which the petihta shows itself to function in a rhetorically as well as hermeneutically effective way.7 The Mashal Unlike the petihta, the mashal is not an exclusively amoraic form. It appears in tannaitic midrashim as well, but more frequently in amoraic midrashim.8 Hermeneutically, what the mashal accomplishes is to aid in the understanding of a biblical verse or verses by constructing a story that ties the verses together into culturally acceptable patterns of meaning, as Boyarin has shown.9 These stories are the new addition that the darshan brings to the biblical text. They function much like the petihta verse above in giving the darshan a degree of freedom and choice in his interpretation of the designated parashah verse. His freedom is a bit greater here in the mashal as he has the power to construct an entire story, and yet at the same time, here, as with the petihta verse, his freedom is not unlimited, as the stories are of an archetypal sort and must thus conform to traditional patterns of story-telling. As noted in the previous chapter, Boyarin shows that many of these patterns come from the paradigms of the Prophets and the Writings. The power of the mashal, then, is similar to that of the petihta verse, in giving the darshan both a degree of freedom and choice as well as an authoritative traditional framework to bolster the authority of his

7 8 9

For other examples of this phenomenon, see PRK 9.3, 9.4, 14.5, 24.11, and 26.3. See table in chapter 5. Boyarin, Intertextuality, chapter 5.

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new midrash. The darshan can thus move one step away from the given parashah text and still speak in an authoritative voice. What are the particular types of traditional mashal stories that are used in PRK as a way to interpret and transform the biblical text? They are often stories about personal relationships and the emotional ties and problems that go along with such relationships. The primary character is almost always a king, probably out of deference to God (who serves as the biblical parallel) but the stories are not usually about his role as a king over his subjects, but rather about his personal relationships with his wife or his son or his daughter. We have already seen examples of courtship and the marital dispute, as well as the paternal care of a sick son. Other examples include the paternal rescue of a son from harm, the refusal to believe in accusations of adultery against his wife, the marriage of his daughter, and his special love for his daughter. The telling of such stories has important rhetorical benefits.10 First, stories, all stories, have an inherent entertainment value. Second, this particular type of story is one that is highly accessible and appealing to a wide array of people. All people are in some personal relationships and the pleasures and difficulties of these relationships are a ubiquitous aspect of life. The emotional tone of the stories also helps their appeal, as they deal with basic human emotions like love, hope, jealousy and anger. Such stories also serve to bridge the time gap between the present of the audience and the distant historical time of the biblical narratives. The mashal retells the biblical stories and re-enacts them, making them feel live, present and contemporary. The archetypal, generic language of the mashal also allows easy applicability to different times and people, making it more accessible than the biblical story. As examples, first consider the meshalim already studied. As noted, 12.11, 1.1 and 12.3 all tell stories of intimate relationships, of courtship and marital disputes and paternal care-taking. What should be further noted is that it is the mashal in each case that adds the emotion and the personal intimacy to a story that, in the Bible, seems far drier and more distant. Consider the following similar example:

10 David Stern studies the rhetoric of the mashal, categorizing its various messages of praise and blame, and showing how the mashal requires audience decoding. What follows here emphasizes a slightly different aspect of the mashal’s rhetoric, the mood set by the type of story it tells. Stern, Parables in Midrash.

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This month shall mark for you the beginning of the months (Ex 12:2). R. Yehoshua b. Levi said: It is like a king whose son was captured and who geared himself up in revenge and redeemed his son, and declared: You should count from the date of the redemption of my son. So, too, the Holy One blessed be He said: You should count from the date of the exodus from Egypt (6.11).

Here, again, it is the mashal which transforms the midrash into one of intimacy and emotion. The biblical verse is a pronouncement or, more accurately, a commandment with regard to the keeping of the calendar. The midrash turns this commandment into a sign of God’s great love for Israel by reframing it through a mashal to a father who redeems his son from captivity and wishes to always remember the date. It is the mashal’s tale of personal relations that effects this transformation of the biblical verse. The following mashal helps to highlight its own mechanism of comparisons to personal family relationships: O maidens of Zion, go forth and gaze upon King Solomon wearing the crown that his mother gave him on his wedding day, on his day of bliss (Song 3:11) . . . R. Hunia said: R. Shimon b. Yohai asked R. Eleazar b. R. Yosi: Is it possible that you have heard from your father what the crown that his mother gave him means? He said to him: It is like a king who had a daughter and loved her exceedingly. He did not cease from loving her until he called her “my sister.” He did not cease from loving her until he called her “my mother.” So, too, the Holy One blessed be He loved Israel and called them “My daughter,” Take heed, daughter, and note (Ps 45:11). He did not cease from loving her until He called her “My sister,” My sister, my darling (Song 5:2). He did not cease from loving her until He called her, “My mother,” Hearken to Me, My people, and give ear to Me, O My nation [le’umi] (Is 51:4). It is written as le’imi, “to My mother.” R. Shimon b. Yohai stood up and kissed him on his head. He said to him: If I have come only to hear this teaching, it is enough for me (1.3).

The midrash compares God to a father-king who loved his daughter so much that he used multiple familial terms of endearment, such as “my sister” and “my mother,” to express his love. R. Eleazar b. R. Yosi explains that God, too, uses such familial terms to express His love for Israel, calling her his daughter, his sister and his mother. The midrash makes the point that comparisons to personal family relationships are meant to express love. The midrash thus tells us something about all meshalim, with their frequent comparisons to such familial relationships, suggesting that all such comparisons are meant to express and create this feeling of love and intimacy between God and Israel. Indeed, the message of love and

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connection is so strong that R. Shimon b. Yohai is inspired by it to kiss R. Eleazar b. R. Yosi. The implication is that such familial comparisons create a feeling of love and connection for all those who hear or tell them, encouraging intimacy. Note that in the initial mashal story, the king is a real biological father, and only the other metaphors are constructed expressions of love, whereas in the nimshal, even the daughter relationship must be constructed. As David Stern has written in relation to another text, what the rabbis speak of is “not biological filiation, but conversionlike affiliation; kinship that is established by intimacy and shared feeling, not by blood.”11 The difference between the mashal and the nimshal highlights the reality of non-biological relationship between God and Israel, making it clear that all the comparisons to intimate family relations are of a constructed nature. Their purpose is both to express and to encourage such intimate feelings of connection. The mashal thus reflects and enacts its own work and that of other similar midrashim which engage in constructing such relationships as a means to fostering intimacy. The AMAR HAKADOSH BARUKH HU Statements David Stern first identified the common amoraic use of the phrase amar hakadosh barukh hu, “The Holy One blessed be He said” as an introduction to God’s intimate speech.12 As we will see in chapter 5, this phrase is one which appears considerably more frequently in amoraic midrash than in tannaitic, and is indeed a common formula in PRK. These personal speeches of God are one of the key tools PRK darshanim use to create a feeling of live, contemporary preaching even as they are engrossed in a deeply exegetical project. Speech, even if it is conceived as taking place in the past, bridges the time gap naturally, seeming to always take place in the present time of its audience. In his analysis of a famous passage in Mekhilta in which R. Akiva has Israel carry on an extended conversation with the nations of the world, Boyarin points to an erasure of difference in the midrash between the past of the biblical text and the present of the midrash, an erasure which makes one wonder: “When and where does

11 12

Stern, Midrash and Theory, 65. Stern, Midrash and Theory, 70–71.

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the conversation in the midrash take place?”13 Speech creates the illusion of atemporality, existing both in the past and the present. Below we will consider some of the key features of the particular type of speech attributed to the Holy One in our midrashim. First, God’s speech often begins by calling its listener by his or her or their name(s). When it is Moses or Abraham or Adam, then God will begin the statement with their names, and often, when it is all of Israel that is being addressed, then God will begin with the term of endearment, banay, “My children.” Beginning statements in this way makes the words feel very personal and familiar and also lends them a colloquial, conversational air. Another common feature of these amar hakadosh barukh hu statements is their use of rhetorical questions. These rhetorical questions, with their beseeching persuasive conversational tone, rely on emotion and relationship for their success. Thus for instance, PRK 14.5 includes the following statement, which later becomes something of a refrain throughout the petihta: “The Holy One blessed be He said to Israel: My children, your fathers did not find wrong in Me, and you have found wrong in Me?” The object of the phrase is to produce a feeling of guilt in the listener, a feeling of guilt based on one’s presumed relationship to God; the question is not, “How could you do this?,” but “How could you do this to Me?” PRK 6.1/9.5 includes a similar rhetorical question: The Holy One blessed be He said: I have given you 10 pure animals, 3 under your domain, and 7 not under your domain . . . Did I burden you by making you search all over the hills and the valleys in order to bring before Me a sacrifice from those that are not under your domain?

Again, the rhetorical question builds and is built upon the relationship between God and the listener; look at how I’ve acted toward you, how kindly I’ve treated you, says God. In these examples, the argument could have been turned into a straightforward statement, e.g. “God is very kind in requiring only the easiest animals for sacrifice.” What the rhetorical question adds is a beseeching, persuasive tone, a conversational feeling, and an appeal to the emotions and to the relationship itself as it is constructed by the speech. Creating a feeling of relationship and of a direct live personal encounter is one of the general functions of these Holy One statements. One of the ways that this feeling of connection is created is through the inclusion in

13

Boyarin, Intertextuality, 118.

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many of these statements of both an “I” and a “you.” This is one of the major changes that occurs between the biblical verses and the midrashic amar hakadosh barukh hu statements. Thus, for instance, in PRK 4.1, the parashah verse being commented upon is a third person description of God’s commands, “This is the ritual law that the Lord has commanded (Num 19:2).” The darshan offers the following far more relational interpretation: “The Holy One blessed be He said: I have ordained a statute, I have decreed a decree, and you are not permitted to transgress My decree.” Even as the subject of the matter proclaims a need for distance, the style creates a feeling of strong inter-relatedness. Everything is personal; I have ordained a statute, I have decreed a decree and You are not permitted to transgress My decree. The mention of both an “I” and a “you” is almost ubiquitous in these statements. Note that in the rhetorical questions above, we have, “You have found wrong in Me,” and “Did I burden you?” A striking example of the personal, relational aspect of these statements is 26.3: “The Holy One blessed be He said to the wicked: The righteous are not happy in My world, and you want to be happy in My world?” Again, even in this negative statement, the feeling of connection is strong, as God expresses His closeness to the world through the personal pronoun “My” in “My world,” olami. Another sign of this connectedness is the frequent use of the term hayekha, “I swear by your life,” in these statements of the Holy One.14 The normal mode of formal swearing in the Bible is to swear on God’s life, hay Adonay, or, in God’s case, to swear on His own life, hay ani.15 The term hayekha is thus remarkable in its use of the second person; it is as if even in swearing God wants to show His connection to the person He is speaking with; “I swear by your life that . . .”16 The term hayekha is also an example of how these statements often have a fairly colloquial, informal feeling to them. Hayekha is not an official oath, but a way of speaking emphatically to another person. The occasional use of Aramaic also lends these statements a colloquial feeling, as does the

14 The term appears 35 times in the amoraic collections PRK and LR. See the table in chapter 5 for details. 15 Moshe Greenberg, “Oath, In the Bible,” EJ 12, 1296. The only use of the actual word hayekha in the Bible is in the mouth of Uriah the Hittite who makes an oath to King David in this fashion, thus affirming the sense that it is only God and others of power like a king whose lives one swears by in the Bible. See II Sam 11:11. 16 See for example PRK 2.5, 4.7, and 9.11.

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use of terms of endearment and rhetorical questions.17 A comparison to the formal language of God’s speech in the Prophets makes it clear how remarkably informal and down-to-earth PRK’s Holy One statements are. Consider the contrast between the following prophetic passage and the following amar hakadosh barukhu hu statement: Isaiah 1:1–3: The prophecies of Isaiah son of Amoz, who prophesied concerning Judah and Jerusalem . . . Hear, O heavens, and give ear, O earth, for the Lord has spoken: ‘I reared children and brought them up—and they have rebelled against me! An ox knows its owner, an ass its master’s crib: Israel does not know, My people takes no thought.’ PRK 6.3: The Holy One blessed be He said to Moses: Go tell Israel that they should observe the practice of bringing the Tamid sacrifice.

The Holy One speaks in these midrashic statements in the simplest of words, without any art or elegance. By contrast, the divine voice of the Prophets is elegant and formal, using poetry, parallelism, imagery and unusual words to create a sense of awe and distance.18 In the example above, even the introduction makes this contrast clear, with its formal call of heaven and earth as witnesses to the official declaration of the Lord. In general, the prophetic introductory formulas, ko amar Adonay, “Thus says the Lord,” and ne’um Adonay, “Declares the Lord,” also express this sense of the formal nature of God’s words in the Prophets; they imply that what follows is a citation of God’s official words. The midrashic formula, “The Holy One blessed be He said,” by contrast, implies a live, personal ad-hoc conversation. Thus far we have considered how the amar hakadosh barukh hu statements work rhetorically to help create an atmosphere of live personal interaction. Next, I want to consider how these statements function exegetically, in relation to the biblical verses they are connected to. David Stern writes of the boldness of this formula in relation to the Bible, saying that, “Following this formula, God speaks not in the words of Scripture, but

17 Margoliot has shown that in general rabbinic literature uses Hebrew for statements of great weight and holiness, and Aramaic for the mundane and ordinary. Eliezer Margoliot, “Hebrew and Aramaic in Talmud and Midrash [Hebrew],” Leshonenu 27 (1962): 20–33. Some examples of the use of Aramaic for God’s statements in PRK can be found in 3.1 and 5.2. 18 Robert Alter explains the development of this type of high poetry for God’s voice in much of the Prophets as a way of creating a sense of an “as-if ” voice for God which is weighty, solemn and intricate. See Robert Alter, The Art of Biblical Poetry (Basic Books, 1985), 141.

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in the language of midrash’s own invention.”19 In truth, occasionally the term amar hakadosh barukh hu does serve as an introduction to an actual citation of a biblical verse, but this use of the term is infrequent. Most of the time, these Holy One statements either have no connection at all to any particular biblical verse or have an indirect relationship to a verse or verses, serving as a kind of interpretative restatement of the intent of the verses. Let us begin with this middle ground, with the ways in which amar hakadosh barukh hu statements interpret biblical verses. In some cases, the statements of the Holy One are a kind of elaboration of the verse’s intent, as in the following example from PRK 5.6, which comments on the Song of Songs verse, “Hark, my beloved knocks! ‘Open up for me, my own, my darling, my faultless dove!’” (Song 5:2). The midrash reads: Open up for me: R. Yassa said: The Holy One blessed be He said: Open up for Me an opening the size of a needle and I will open up for you an opening that camps full of soldiers and siege engines could enter.

The Song of Songs verse is of course already very personal and relational, and this Holy One statement elaborates and builds on this sense of connectedness and articulates it in words that are extremely reciprocal; you open for Me and I will open for you. The Holy One statement also adds a sense of God’s desire to indulge and spoil the people; all they need to do is begin a tiny opening and He will happily increase the opening ten-fold. In other cases the amar hakadosh barukh hu statement has a more transformative relationship to the biblical verse it is connected to. Thus for instance, PRK 4.1’s amar hakadosh barukh hu restatement of the verse, “This is the ritual law that the Lord has commanded (Num 19:2),” transforms it from a third person descriptive statement to an extremely personal relational speech act: “The Holy One blessed be He said: I have ordained a statute, I have decreed a decree, and you are not permitted to transgress My decree.” The key is that these Holy One statements create a dialogic, relational feeling. In cases where such a feeling already exists in the verse, they merely elaborate; in cases where such a feeling is not present in the verse, they creatively transform the verse to make it more personal and relational.

19

Stern, Midrash and Theory, 70.

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In some unusual cases, these Holy One statements may be used to actually contradict certain biblical verses. Thus in the following example from PRK 24.16, when God tells Jeremiah to tell the people to repent, the people respond by wondering how they could possibly repent when signs of their idolatry are everywhere. The ensuing dialogue between Jeremiah and God reads as follows: Jeremiah came before the Holy One blessed be He and told Him what the people had said. He [the Holy One] said to him: Go tell them: Did I not write for you in My Torah, I will set My face against that person and cut him off from among his people (Lev 20:6)? Did I do this to you? Rather, I will not look on you in anger, for I am compassionate—declares the Lord; I do not bear a grudge for all time (Jer 3:12).

The Holy One’s voice is aligned here with the live contemporary voice of Jeremiah against God’s own previously written word in the Torah. The Holy One proclaims that He did not and will not abide by the harshness of His own previous sentence in Leviticus, but rather offers a newer contemporary restatement of His intentions with regard to sinners. This midrash highlights the sense that we have in many midrashim in a less overt fashion that the Holy One’s voice is distinct from that of Scripture and is meant to respond to certain contemporary rhetorical needs, sometimes even in contradiction to Scripture’s dictates.20 As with the mashal’s story and the petihta’s distant verse, the Holy One’s voice provides the preacher with an authoritative way of moving one step away from Scripture. The time-period in which the example above takes place is that of Jeremiah, but the Holy One’s speech seems to reach out across time and speak to any contemporary audience: “Did I do this to you? Rather, I will not look on you in anger.” As with many of the Holy One statements, past and present merge in the eternal present of the speech. Frances Young notes a similar tendency in Chrysostom’s use of Paul’s speech. Concerning one such passage, Young writes: We have shifted from ‘their failings’ to direct address. Of course, at one level it is deductive paraphrase—Chrysostom putting words into Paul’s mouth—but, at another level, his own congregation is drawn into the text and addressed.21

20

Another example of a divine statement which contradicts a biblical one is found in 24.7. 21 Frances Young, Biblical Exegesis and the Formation of Christian Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 251.

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The same could be said for many of the “deductive paraphrases” of the Holy One statements. PRK 24.11 works similarly; God is officially addressing Hosea’s audience when he says, “I have accepted the repentance of Cain, and do you think I will not accept your repentance?” However, the generic “you” as well as the continued relevance of the message make the message sound contemporary. The relationship between past and present in these statements can sometimes be almost explicit. Sometimes God is clearly addressing a biblical character of the past, but He refers openly to future generations, with whom a contemporary audience would presumably identify. Thus, for instance, God says: “Abraham, every time your sons enter synagogues and study-houses, they should remain seated and My Honor will stand” (PRK 5.8). In other texts, there is no pretense of a past audience at all; the subject is so contemporary that the only possible audience is a rabbinic one. Thus for instance, the Holy One says to “Israel”: “My sons, Read this parashah every year and I will consider it as if you are standing before Mount Sinai and accepting the Torah (12.1).” The message is clearly meant to address a post-biblical audience, one who is not standing at Sinai, but reading the parashah in synagogue. This midrash is a clear example of what we see more obliquely elsewhere, that the Holy One’s voice is often an extremely contemporary one, addressing a contemporary audience through the vehicle of His address to an ancient one. The Interpersonal Dialogue Between Biblical Characters Holy One statements sometimes appear as a monologue and sometimes appear as part of a dialogue, usually between God and Moses or between God and Israel. There are also frequent dialogues between Moses and Israel as well as between other biblical characters. These dialogues make the midrashim feel even more alive and present and contemporary, adding the live feeling of a play or a re-enactment, rather than the more distant feeling of a narrative or commentary. There is also a sense of personal intimacy involved in the back and forth feeling of the dialogue.22 22 The existence of a dialogue form in homiletical midrash is noted by Uthemann in his discussion of the Christian preacher Severian of Gabala’s similar use of dialogue. In that context, Uthemann describes the dialogue in homiletical midrash as “delivered with change of voice and in imitation of the characters.” This understanding of the mode of delivery of these dialogues has no apparent rabbinic source, and would, in any case, be difficult to prove. He apparently derives the idea from M. Sachot, who in turn derives it from Joseph

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Probably the most important rhetorical feature of the dialogue, and what distinguishes it from the monological Holy One statements considered above, is the presence of a second voice, the voice of an audience. These dialogues are usually constructed between an authoritative figure like God, Moses or one of the prophets and an audience of lesser stature, either Moses in relation to God, or Israel in relation to any of the authorities. Usually the authority makes a statement and this alternative voice, the audience, responds to that statement with some problem or concern or argument. The authoritative figure then responds to the audience’s argument, restating his original statement but with the position of the audience in mind. Such dialogues create an impression of responsiveness and care on the part of the leadership. The audience voice is heard and answered; indeed, the audience voice is often presented as the driving force behind the creation of the midrash, creating at least a perception of this new rhetoric—and thereby also of this new version of the religion—as extremely audience-centered. These dialogues enact a moment of persuasion, a moment of rhetorical encounter with an audience’s objections. As we saw in the last chapter, often biblical characters in these midrashim can be understood to represent or tell us something about the rabbinic preacher. In this case, the frequent inclusion of an audience voice to be heard and responded to implies that the rabbinic goal in these midrashim is at least partly the persuasion of its own audience. Below I will cite two examples of the most common form of these audience dialogues, what I will call the dialogue of concern and response: 2.10: R. Judah b. Simon said in the name of R. Yohanan: There were three commandments which Moses heard from the mouth of the Powerful One which frightened23 him and made him recoil. (1) When He said to him:

Heinemann’s entry on homily in the Encyclopaedia Judaica where it is again asserted without reference to any rabbinic source. Karl-Heinz Uthemann, “Forms of Communication in the Homilies of Severian of Gabala: A Contribution to the Reception of the Diatribe as a Method of Exposition,” trans John Cawte, in Preacher and Audience: Studies in Early Christian and Byzantine Homiletics (ed. Mary B. Cunningham and Pauline Allen; Leiden: Brill, 1998), 139–177. M. Sachot, “Homilie.” Reallexikon fur Antike und Christentum Band 16 (1994): 148–176. Joseph Heinemann, “Preaching,” EJ 13: 994–998. 23 Hebrew nivhal. While Braude and Kapstein (p. 48) translate “startled,” I have chosen “frightened” because it expresses the emotional element which is part of the meaning of the root ‫ בהל‬according to Sokoloff and Jastrow. Sokoloff ’s definition is “to be frightened, excited” (p. 86) and Jastrow’s, “to hurry, be excited, anxious,” and, for the pi’el form, “to agitate, frighten” (p. 142). In both cases, the meaning of the root entails a greater emotional agitation than implied by the translation “startled.” It is important to note Moses’

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chapter three And let them make Me a sanctuary (Ex 25:8), Moses said before the Holy One blessed be He: Master of the Universe, behold all of the heavenly skies cannot contain You, and You say, And let them make Me a sanctuary? The Holy One blessed be He said to him: Moses, it is not as you think, but rather, 20 boards to the north, 20 boards to the south, . . . and I will come down and squeeze My presence amongst you below, as it says, There I will meet with you (Ex 25:22). (2) When He said: The offerings of food due Me (Num 28:2), Moses said before the Holy One blessed be He: Master of the Universe, if I gather all of the animals in the world, is there in them [enough] for even one offering? . . . The Holy One blessed be He said to him: Moses, it is not as you think, but rather, Say to them: These are the offerings by fire (Num 28:3), and not two at once, but rather one in the morning and one at twilight . . . 5.3: Hope deferred sickens the heart (Prov 13:12). R. Hiyya b. Abba said: These are the Israelites before they were redeemed. You find that when Moses came to Israel and said to them: The Holy One blessed be He said to me: Go tell Israel, ‘I have taken note of you’ (Ex 3:16), they said to him: Our rabbi Moses, is it still only ‘taking note?’ What strength have I, that I should endure? How long have I to live, that I should be patient? Is my strength the strength of rocks? Is my flesh bronze? (Job 6:11–12). Is our strength the strength of rocks? Is our flesh bronze? But once he said to them: This month you are being redeemed, they said: This is a good sign. Desire realized is a tree of life (Prov 13:12). This month shall mark for you the beginning of months (Ex 12:2).

The basic pattern in all of these dialogues is similar: a) a statement by God with either a command (first example) or a promise (second example); b) some anxiety, concern and doubt expressed by human beings (Moses or the Israelites) about either the feasibility of carrying out the command (first example) or the likelihood that the promise will be kept (second example); and c) assurance by God or by God through a messenger in response to the concern raised by Moses or the people. This dialogue pattern of concern and response is a common one in PRK midrashim. It enacts a moment of personal interaction between an authoritative caretaker (God or Moses) and his charge. It feels intimate, live and contemporary, with its lively, emotional dialogue between a speaker and an audience. It also, as noted earlier, creates a distinct impression of responsiveness on the part of the authoritative figures. There is a clear audience voice in each example, and this audience voice is indeed a kind of counter-voice to the authoritative speaker’s voice,

emotional state as this is one of the characteristics of this type of dialogue; it is a dialogue of emotional concern and response. See the discussion below.

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expressing concern about the speaker’s message and an alternative way of viewing things. In the first example Moses is the auditor and he expresses concern about the possibility of actually carrying out God’s command to build a sanctuary and bring sacrifices. His is a counter-voice that expresses the impossibility of ever fulfilling God’s needs. In the second example, the people of Israel are the audience for a message of redemption and their counter-voice is one of complaint, anger and impatience at the long wait for this redemption. One senses that part of the purpose of this midrash is merely to give vent to the strength of such feelings through the poignant words of Job, “Is my strength the strength of rocks?” These audience counter-voices stand out in these midrashim as the focal point of the dialogue and its heart; it is here that we feel the emotional turmoil that disturbs the peace of the seemingly simple messages of God and Moses, and it is here that we feel the pressure that must have driven the creation of these midrashim. For the audience voices reveal the points of controversy and contention and anxiety, the points that the speaker must have felt needed to be addressed. Addressing these points is what happens in the final stage of these dialogues, the response stage, and it is here that we see the responsive nature of these dialogues. The goal of the speaker is to address the concerns and anxieties of his audience and to set them at ease. God tells Moses not to worry, that the sanctuary and the sacrifices are much easier tasks than he had imagined; and Moses tells the impatient Israelites that their redemption is indeed at hand. These are the final messages of these midrashim and what gives them significance in each case is the fact that they are responding to a real need for just such a message as articulated by the audience counter-voice. Indeed, whatever the actual content of the midrash, part of the message is the form itself, which articulates a sense of care and concern for the people on the part of the leadership. The dialogue is purely a creation of the darshan. In each of the cases above, and indeed in most PRK dialogues, Scripture contains only the voice of the authority. What the PRK darshan adds in each case is the audience voice expressing its concern about this authoritative voice’s message. The darshan creates a dialogue by inserting an audience voice between two authoritative Scriptural voices. Such an insertion completely reframes the Scriptural voice, turning it into a loving one of concern and response instead of the monologic authoritative voice of Scripture. The darshan creates the voice of an audience with certain concerns, like a concern over the delay in redemption or the impossibility of building the tabernacle. We have no way of knowing, of course, whether these were the

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actual concerns of the contemporary audiences of our midrashim. It seems likely that they bore some relation to audience concerns or they would have been rhetorically rather ineffective. A concern about redemption makes sense for a contemporary audience, as does a concern not so much about the difficulty of fulfilling the command to build the tabernacle, but about the difficulty of fulfilling most of the rabbinic laws. At the same time, we should also be aware that these audience voices probably tell us less about the actual audiences of these midrashim and more about the darshanim who constructed them. They tell us that these darshanim wanted to imagine their audiences as anxious and needy, like the sickly son in need of care in 12.3, because they wanted to create a need for their own paternal care-taking role, their own role of assurance and comfort. They wanted to build up their authority and influence among the people, not out of a rhetoric of rebuke or authoritarian commands, but out of a rhetoric of care and concern and indulgence. To this end, they needed to imagine and construct an extremely anxious, needy audience.24 As one final example of this concern and response pattern, consider PRK 4.4: [Who is like the wise man, and who knows the meaning of the adage:] “A man’s wisdom lights up his face” (Ecc 8:1). R. Mani of Shav and R. Yehoshua of Sikhnin said in the name of R. Levi: Concerning every matter about which the Holy One blessed be He spoke to Moses, He would tell him its impurity and also its purity [how to become pure from that type of impurity]. But when He reached the parashah of Speak to the priests . . . None shall defile himself for any [dead] person among his kin (Lev 21:1), Moses said to Him: Master of the Universe, and if he does become impure, what is the means of his purification? But He [God] did not respond to him. At that moment, our rabbi Moses’ face turned pale. That is what is written, The strength of his face changed (Ecc 8:1). Once He reached the parashah of the Red Heifer, the Holy One blessed be He said to him: Moses, that saying that I said to you, Speak to the priests (Lev 21:1), and you said to Me: Master of the Universe, and if he does become impure, what is the means of his purification, and I did not respond to you—this is its process of purification: Some of the ashes . . . shall be taken for the unclean person (Num 19:17). What is this? This is the ritual law [the Red Heifer] (Num 19:1).

The dialogue pattern of concern and response is disrupted here, and the disruption teaches us a great deal about the pattern itself. Since God generally tells Moses the means of purification together with the laws of 24

See especially 1.8 which implies a kind of free-floating anxiety.

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impurity with regard to each form of impurity, Moses is surprised when God does not include the laws of purification when He speaks in Leviticus of how a priest becomes defiled from contact with a corpse. When Moses hears these laws of impurity, he expresses concern about how a priest may become purified from such contact. Here we have the first two elements of the pattern, the divine statement, and the human concern, but the final element, the divine response, is missing. Moses Himself feels that it is missing, and his face turns pale. This moment of disappointment and sadness is the emotional center of this midrash. It is here that the Ecclesiastes verse, which is the midrash’s petihta verse, is cited, with its vivid imagery, “The strength of his face changed,” and it is here that we feel the strongest emotional pull, Moses’ emotional upset at God’s lack of a response to his query. The midrash resolves the issue of course. God eventually does respond, giving Moses the details of the purification ritual in the Red Heifer parashah in Numbers. The resolution is one of information, yes, but it is also, and perhaps primarily, a repair of the relationship, a repair of the loss of a sense of divine responsiveness. The problem or pressure point which this midrash is focused on is the problem of the change in Moses’ face, the emotional feeling of abandonment at God’s initial nonresponsiveness. It is this feeling that, I think, writ large, and in relation to a contemporary rabbinic audience, must have been the pressure point that caused the creation of precisely this midrashic dialogue pattern of concern and response. In this midrash, the message is that sometimes one has to wait for a response, but God always does eventually respond; in other midrashim the message is simply that God responds to human concerns. This midrash highlights the issue of responsiveness by showing what happens when the normal pattern of response is disrupted. This last midrash also offers a good example of how the dialogue functions hermeneutically. Hermeneutically, this midrash picks up on the surprising distance between the Leviticus laws of impurity concerning a priest’s contact with a corpse and the Numbers laws of purification for such contact. Into this gaping hole it inserts Moses’ question and his ensuing disappointment at God’s unresponsiveness. The insertion of a dialogue into a gap in the text is one of the common ways that these dialogues function hermeneutically. The first example cited above functions in a similar way, with the gap between the initial statement about the building of the sanctuary and its details being filled by a dialogue between God and Moses about Moses’ concern about those details. The second part of that first example functions in a slightly different way,

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with the dialogue being inserted between two adjacent verses; the idea is the same, though; the midrash suggests that what led to the detailing of the sacrificial obligations was the concern of Moses which was articulated in the space between the two verses. In many of these cases, it is as if the biblical text, which often seems like a monologue, was actually only reporting half of a dialogue between God and a human audience on the other end. The midrash fills in the other audience half of the dialogue, thereby turning the later statements of God into responses rather than a continuing part of a monologue. The dialogue may also be used exegetically as a way of highlighting and explaining something interesting about the biblical text. Thus for instance, in the first two examples above, part of what the dialogues achieve hermeneutically is to highlight the use of the demonstrative in the verses; “There I will meet with you,” in the sanctuary, as opposed to anywhere else in the world; “These” are your sacrificial obligations, and only these; and “This month” you are being redeemed, as opposed to some unknown date in the future. Hermeneutically, the dialogue in each of these cases is brought to explain the need for these “theses.” The explanation is that there was a need for such demonstratives in order to make a point to the audience about which they had some concern, like God’s size in relation to the sanctuary, the quantity of sacrifices needed, and the always distant feeling of the date of redemption. In other words, when looking for a way to explain a certain striking word in the biblical text, these darshanim tended to address their exegetical question through a rhetorical lens. That is, the answer to the exegetical question is that the audience caused a need for that term; the answer, in other words, to an exegetical question, is a rhetorical need. The personal dialogue is also related to the hermeneutical workings of the midrash in that it is partly created out of another dialogue that takes place in these midrashim, the dialogue between different types of biblical verses. This dialogue of verses is especially typical of the petihta form, with its distant verse from the Prophets or the Writings and its parashah verse from the Pentateuch. PRK 5.3 and 4.4, both petihta’ot, are good examples of how these personal dialogues are created out of the dialogue between their distant verses. In 5.3, we have the petihta verse, “Hope deferred, . . .” and the parashah verse, “This month.” One describes an emotional state; the other is a statement by God about the future. In the midrash, the petihta verse serves to describe the emotional state of the audience and the parashah verse is the voice of God in response to that audience’s pain. The dialogue of verses thus becomes a dialogue of voices. Similarly, in

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4.4, the petihta verse’s description of an emotional state, “The strength of his face changed” is said to refer to the disappointment felt by God’s audience, Moses, and the parashah verse’s statement of law, “This is the ritual law,” is said to refer to God’s response to Moses’ disappointment. Once again, the dialogue of verses facilitates a dialogue of voices. Up till now, we have concerned ourselves exclusively with dialogues in which there is an actual audience voice as well as a speaker’s voice. However, some of the same rhetorical functions are often accomplished in these midrashim without the presence of a real audience voice, but merely by reference to the existence of an audience. In these situations, there is not the same feeling of live interaction, but there is still the sense of relationship and responsiveness so prominent in this concern and response type of dialogue. Thus, for instance, in 12.3, studied in previous sections above, although the Israelites never speak, their sickness is described and God’s decision to postpone the giving of the Torah is said to be in response to their needs. Thus the pattern of concern and response exists even without the presence of an actual dialogue of speech. Note that in this example the dialogue of verses is transformed into a kind of personal dialogue, with the petihta verse, “For I am sick with love,” giving voice to the silent Israelite audience, and the parashah verse, “On the third new moon,” presenting God’s response.25 In this example (12.3), the weak and sickly audience is one cause for the creation of such a caring midrash, but the audience does not really act as a counter-voice. The sickly Israelites do not present an alternative point of view that must be argued against but rather a need that must be cared for. There is another voice in this midrash that takes on this role of counter-voice, the pedagogue who wants the child to go immediately back to school in spite of any lingering signs of illness. The midrash is created in response to both of these pressures then, the need to fight against this alternative way of viewing things and the need to care for a sickly audience. These two modes of relating and persuading, the caring responsiveness and the argument are both present in many of these midrashim, and both essential parts of any rhetorical genre, but if anything, the emphasis is generally on the caring responsive side in PRK.26

25 26

14.5 is another example of a hidden audience voice. See 14.5 and 6.3 for two counter-examples of admonishing arguments.

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The dialogue, then, like the mashal, can serve as a kind of window into the creative process behind these midrashim, showing that the rabbis viewed their project in rhetorical as well as exegetical terms. The dialogue form also stands as an argument for rhetorical prominence in these midrashim by its very nature as dialogue. Here we see the live, direct address of an audience and the back and forth conversation which is persuasion made explicit. If sermons and rhetoric are speech, and we have doubts about how much speech there is in these highly edited, literary documents, we need look no further than these dialogues. Hasan-Rokem says about her analysis of folk narrative dialogues in Leviticus Rabbah that her purpose is “to elicit the orality in the written.”27 If nothing else, these personal dialogues between biblical characters help us do the same for this document. Conclusion My purpose in analyzing all four of these midrashic forms has been similar to Hasan-Rokem’s notion of eliciting the orality in the written. My purpose has been to elicit the rhetorical and the homiletical in the exegetical, to capture the feeling of live, contemporary preaching in the exegetical analysis of biblical texts. In each case, we have seen how these forms allow the darshan to bridge the time gap between the Bible and the rabbis’ contemporary audience, either through the use of the less historically rooted petihta verses or through the timeless mashal stories or through the live feeling of speech, whether on its own or in dialogue with another. We also saw how in each case the realm of the personal and emotional was emphasized, either again through the choice of a petihta verse or a story or through the use of speech which is always direct and personal and highly connected, and even more so when it includes an audience voice. In total, these forms do not leave one with the impression of a commentary composed exclusively with the aim of scholarly exegetical analysis, but rather with the impression of a speaker interested in connecting with his audience in a very direct personal way. In this chapter, we have considered how PRK’s midrashic forms create a rhetoric of intimacy and connection. In the following chapter, we will consider the part PRK’s thematic content plays in such a rhetoric.

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Hasan-Rokem, Tales of the Neighborhood, 2.

CHAPTER FOUR

PRK’S THEMATIC CONCERNS: A THEOLOGY OF INTIMACY, HUMILITY AND INDULGENCE This chapter will focus its thematic analysis of PRK specifically on theology, pointing to some general trends in the way that PRK depicts God. What we will find is a theology of intimacy, humility and indulgence; PRK midrashim depict a God who is unassuming and down-to-earth, personal, forgiving and undemanding in His relations to humans. These themes fit well with the forms studied in the previous chapter. The personal relationship narratives of the mashal, the intimate statements of the Holy One blessed be He and the personal dialogue all contribute to a sense of intimacy. They also imply a relationship between God and Israel that is down-to-earth and indulgent as God responds to every concern of the Israelites, speaking to them in a tender, colloquial voice. The petihta, too, contributes to the feeling of intimacy as it allows the principal subject of midrashim to be based on the personal dialogue of the Song of Songs (for instance) rather than the authoritative dialogue of Leviticus (for instance). Exegesis and theme are famously hard to untangle in midrash.1 A thematic emphasis in midrash may simply be due to a trend in the biblical text. The way to circumnavigate this issue is to point to thematic trends and emphases that are not present (or not present to the same extent) in the biblical text, at least not in the biblical text immediately under study by the midrash. Here as elsewhere we can often see the influence of certain parts of the Prophets and the Writings on the theology developed in PRK. However, the Prophets and the Writings offer a variety of theological alternatives to choose from so that PRK’s particular choice still tells us something about its darshanim. Moreover, when we find the same theological emphasis across various exegetical contexts in PRK, then the case can be made for a significant thematic trend. If the emphasis were purely exegetical, one would expect it to vary with the text under study;

1

See David Stern’s discussion of this issue. Stern, Midrash and Theory, 73.

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when it does not, it can be said to reflect something about the author(s) of the midrashic text. One of the claims of this chapter is that this down-to-earth indulgent theology is fairly new in the history of midrash. Related to this theology of a God who comes down to earth and takes active and intimate part in human affairs is the notion of anthropomorphism. Arthur Marmorstein and Jacob Neusner have both shown, in different ways, that what Marmorstein calls rabbinic Judaism’s anthropomorphic trend becomes more pronounced and influential specifically in the amoraic period. 2 Before that, there is some controversy over anthropomorphism between the literalist R. Akiva group and the allegorical R. Ishmael group. According to Marmorstein, in the amoraic period, “victory fell to R. Akiba and his disciples,” who read the Bible literally and therefore often anthropomorphically.3 PRK’s interest in a God who is down-to-earth and acts on earth may be part of this phenomenon, part of the amoraic movement toward a more human-like depiction of God. The Tisha b’Av lectionary cycle also seems to have been created at about the same time or just before the redaction of PRK in the fifth-sixth century, and, according to Elsie Stern, we find in this lectionary cycle the development of a theology of intimacy as well, a general movement from a powerful God to an intimate, romantic one. Stern also studies PRK’s chapters dealing with these weeks of rebuke and consolation and finds in them the articulation of similar themes.4 Both the lectionary cycle and PRK are creations of the rabbis from approximately the same period and both have an eye toward a wider synagogue audience, so that it makes sense that these two creations would bear witness to a similar development within rabbinic Judaism toward a more intimate, less awesome God. 2 Arthur Marmorstein, The Old Rabbinic Doctrine of God, II. Essays in Anthropomorphism (New York: Ktav Publishing House, 1968). Jacob Neusner calls the shift a move toward incarnation. He traces a trajectory of belief about God from premise to person to personality (the amoraic period) to incarnation (the Babylonian Talmud). Jacob Neusner, The Incarnation of God: The Character of Divinity in Formative Judaism (Atlanta, Georgia: Scholars Press, 1992). See also David Stern’s discussion of these scholars and his suggestion that we consider anthropomorphic images in rabbinic literature from a literary perspective, not as an expression of belief but as a form of poetry or figurative language. Stern, Midrash and Theory, 76–78. My analysis here does not rely on the assumption that these figures actually represent what the rabbis believed about God. Rather, I understand their expressions about God as a way to speak about themselves. The shift in the way they speak about God is therefore worthy of study as it suggests a shift in the rabbis’ self-understanding. 3 Marmorstein, The Old Rabbinic Doctrine, 31 and 56ff. 4 Elsie Stern, From Rebuke to Consolation.

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The sense of this theology as a new development is a subject that will be taken up in greater detail in chapter 6, through a comparison to the theology of tannaitic midrashim. In this chapter, however, the subject of novelty will be addressed through the PRK texts themselves, as many of them show hints of a kind of consciousness of the novelty of their own project and of the change involved in creating such a rhetoric. Here we will be making use of the reading methodology discussed in chapter 2, a method that sees the midrashic text as a window into the rabbis’ perception of their own project. As we will see, the act of change in these midrashim is generally ascribed to God, not to Israel. Rhetorically, the text is involved in a project of persuasion, an attempt to attract the people and convince them to change. And yet it is God Himself, a figure for the midrashic author(s), who changes, who changes from a judge to a mother, from an awesome distant God to one who dwells on earth with His people. It is in the depiction of these changes that we see the midrashists’ rhetorical constructions, we see how they have changed the terms for the sake of persuasion, how they have attempted to create a new God who will be attractive to the people. It is this rhetorical construction of a new type of God that is under study in this chapter. Intimacy and Immanence As noted in the discussion of the mashal in the previous chapter, one of the mechanisms for establishing a sense of intimacy is the frequent use of comparisons to intimate family relationships. God is portrayed as a father or a mother or a husband to Israel. PRK 1.3 goes so far as to say that God is so loving and intimate with Israel that He considers her a daughter and a sister as well as a mother. These meshalim help to convey a general notion of God as having an intimate relationship with His people. Such familial metaphors are not restricted to the mashal. Thus for instance when Jeremiah reports that the people are fearful that God will not accept their repentance, God sends back the message: “If you come [in repentance], won’t you be coming before your father in heaven (24.16)?” In another passage, 5.6, God compares His relationship to Israel to that of twins: “Just as with these twins, if one of them has a headache, the other feels it, so too, the Holy One blessed be He said, I will be with him in distress (Ps 91:15).”

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This intimacy is also often expressed in physical terms in these midrashim. In 1.2, the need for the tabernacle is explained through a comparison to a father whose daughter is maturing and he therefore needs to communicate with her in a new private space rather than out in the open as before. Elsewhere, the sense of physical closeness is expressed in terms of an undershirt; Israel is as close to God as a king to his undershirt; “they are attached to Me” (2.7). Another example of this physical intimacy with God is the explanation of the Israelites’ desert clothing in the following way: “The clouds of glory wrapped them” (11.20). In 11.8, a text to be studied in greater detail below, God is said to be involved in the intimate physical acts of bathing Israel, dressing them, putting on their shoes and even carrying them. God is not only intimate in these midrashim, but also immanent and sometimes human-like, taking part in events on earth. When the count of Israelites entering Egypt is missing one, R. Tanhum b. R. Hamilai says: “The Holy One blessed be He entered with them in His Glory” (11.13). When God wishes to mourn for Jerusalem’s destruction, He inquires as to the human ways of mourning and follows suit (15.3). When the prophets are unsuccessful in their efforts at consoling Israel, God joins with them in their task: “I and you will go and comfort her (16.8).”5 There is a sense of an increase in intimacy (and immanence) over time in some of these midrashim. 1.2, mentioned above, speaks about changes in the divine-human relationship through the parable of the father who needs privacy with his daughter as she grows up. The key here is that the theme of change is invoked and the movement is toward an increase in intimacy. The very first midrash of this parashah, 1.1, includes a mashal analyzed in chapter 2 that also speaks about a growth in intimacy over time. Here we have a king who wants to bring his wife back after a fight; she says he should “do something new” for her, and the new thing he does is to accept sacrifices from below rather than from above, as before. Here the increase in intimacy is specifically identified as something new, a change from before.

5 The midrash reads the term nahamu ami, “comfort, My people (Is 40:1)” as nahamu imi, “comfort with me.” Note that this portrayal of God in intimate, human-like terms may have been partly derived and developed from prophetic descriptions. 4.4 suggests that the rabbis had such an understanding of the prophetic view of God. It reads: “A man’s wisdom lights up his face (Ecc 8:1): R. Yudan said: Great is the power of the prophets for they liken the image of the Mighty One to the image of man; I heard a human voice from the middle of Ulai (Dan 8:16).”

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These two midrashim are from the parashah on the Hanukkah reading that begins with the completion of the tabernacle. A similar theme crops up in chapter 12, on the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai. Consider the following mashal, the last of a series of meshalim in 12.11: R. Abba b. Yudan said: It is like a [Roman] king who was going to give away his daughter in marriage [to a Syrian man].6 Now this king had [previously] issued a royal prohibition7 saying that Romans should not go down to Syria [to get wives] and Syrians should not go up to Rome [to get wives]. But once he himself gave his daughter in marriage [to a Syrian man], he withdrew the prohibition. So, too, before the Torah was given, The heavens belong to the Lord, but the earth He gave over to man (Ps 115:16), but once He gave the Torah from heaven, And Moses went up to God (Ex 19:3), and the Lord came down upon Mount Sinai (Ex 19:20).

The exact meaning of the mashal’s story is difficult to decipher, but the general movement of change is clear from the nimshal; there used to be strict boundaries between heaven and earth, but beginning with the giving of the Torah, a new freedom of movement was allowed between heaven and earth and the human-divine relationship became more intimate. On one level, these changes in intimacy are taking place in the biblical past, in the movement from pre-Sinai to post-Sinai and from pre-tabernacle to post-tabernacle. On another level, however, the midrash’s time reaches into the present of its listeners with its eternal “then” and “now” (1.1), giving a sense that the growth in intimacy is taking place in their own contemporary moment, indeed through the construction of these very midrashim. The following midrash tells a story of change in rabbinic discussions of God, and thus officially takes place in rabbinic time. R. Shimon b. Yozadak sent a message to R. Shmuel b. Nahman with the following question: He said to him: Since I have heard that you are a Master

6 This translation is based on Saul Lieberman’s interpretation of the mashal as referring to the annulment of a prohibition against intermarriage between Romans and Syrians at the time that a king wanted either himself to marry a Syrian woman or his daughter to marry a Syrian man. Lieberman suggests that the mashal is based on an actual historical incident, the marriage of the late second century emperor Septimus Severus to a Syrian woman, Julia Domna. Severus was apparently responsible for some military reforms with regard to marrying native women, and Lieberman suggests that the Palestinian Jews may have associated his marriage to a Syrian woman with such reforms. Lieberman, Greek in Jewish Palestine, 10–12. 7 Kartisin, from the Greek κράτησις, which Lieberman defines as “royal prohibition.” Lieberman, Greek in Jewish Palestine, 12.

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chapter four of Aggadah,8 can you tell me whence light came out into the world? He said to him: The Holy One blessed be He wrapped Himself in a white covering9 and the whole world shone from the radiance of His majesty.10 He told him this in a whisper. He said to him: It is an explicit verse, Wrapped in a robe of light (Ps 204:2), and you tell me it in a whisper?! He said to him: Just as they told me in a whisper, so I told you in a whisper. If R. Isaac had not preached this matter in public,11 it would not be possible to say it. And before this, what did they used to say (about light)? R. Berekhiah said: Light came out into the world from the temple site . . . (21.5).

A point of esoterica regarding the emergence of light in the world is passed on from one rabbi to another, and its esoteric nature is questioned. This passage expresses a sense of change with regard to the public telling of esoterica. What had previously been passed on only in secret was now being publicly preached by R. Isaac, a well-known third century Palestinian preacher. As in 12.11 with regard to the giving of the Torah, here, too, there is a sense that formerly strict boundaries are being crossed and loosened, that the gates holding heaven away from the public are now being slowly opened. In the past, the only thing that could be said in public was that light emerged from a holy place, the temple site. In the new present of R. Isaac’s time, however, it had become permissible to publicly preach that light came out of God Himself wrapped in a white garment. The public was being allowed a closer, more intimate view of God Himself. God’s physical being had become declassified. The sense of change with regard to the closeness of the human-divine relationship is not only expressed in these midrashim in relation to the past and the present, but also in relation to the future. Images of the future serve as a window into what is considered most desirable and wished-for in a society, and it is significant here that what is most desired is intimacy with God Himself. This desire for intimacy is a theme expressed in many of the midrashim in the parshiyyot of “the weeks of consolation.” Here is one especially poignant example:

8 Hebrew Ba’al Hagadah. R. Shmuel b. Nahman was a third generation amora from Tiberias known for his aggadic expertise. See Strack and Stemberger, Introduction, 89. “Master of Aggadah” may refer here not to expertise in non-legal material, but expertise specifically in esoterica. 9 Itztalit. Sokoloff (51) translates “garment;” Jastrow (110) “covering;” and Braude and Kapstein (458) “robe.” 10 See also R. Shmuel b. Nahman’s statement earlier in this midrash that in the future people will “walk in the light of the Holy One blessed be He.” 11 R. Isaac was also a third generation amora and also known for his expertise in aggadah. He worked in Tiberias as well as Caesarea. Strack and Stemberger, Introduction, 89.

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With You is the fountain of life; by Your light do we see light (Ps 36:10). . . . R. Yohanan said: It is like a person who was walking on the road with the last flickering of the sun. One person came along and lit a candle for him and it blew out. Another came and lit a candle for him and it, too, went out. He said: From now on, I will wait only for the light of the morning. So, too, Israel said to the Holy One blessed be He: Master of the Universe, we made you a lamp stand in the days of Moses and it was extinguished. We made you ten lamp stands in the days of Solomon12 and they too were extinguished. From now on we are waiting for Your light alone, By your light do we see light (21.3).

The movement here is unquestionably toward greater closeness with God. The previous generations had a candle instead of the sun, a menorah instead of the light of God Himself. There is a sense of confidence here about God’s eventual arrival; there is no obstacle to achieving this view of God and His light; it is only a matter of time, like the coming dawn of the sun. There is also an indication of the need for such faith; there is a clear expression of the hunger for such intimacy, the hunger for God Himself after making do with paltry substitutes.13 Humility We have just seen how God comes down to earth to be intimate with His people. It often seems in these midrashim that He has also come down from His lofty, awesome personality to become a humbler type of god. What we will see below is a fundamental change in the power dynamic between God and humanity, a reversal of the normal ways of thinking of this relationship in terms of a powerful God and a subservient humanity. Elsie Stern finds in the Tisha b’Av lectionary cycle a similar “surprising shift in the dynamics of power in the relationship between God and Israel.”14 God moves from being “an omnipotent agent” to taking on the role of the “supplicant, doing whatever he can to console Israel.” A similar change can be seen within the midrashim of PRK as a whole, suggesting, as we mentioned earlier, that the two creations come from a similar time and rabbinic mind-set. We have already seen an example of this reversal of the normal expected power dynamic in PRK 1.1. There we saw God in the less than powerful

12 13 14

See I Kings 7:49 which refers to the use of 10 menorot or lampstands. 22.3 expresses a similar sentiment. Stern, From Rebuke to Consolation, 174.

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position of begging Israel to come back to Him. 19.5 tells a similar story, comparing God to a king who wants to bring back his wife after a fight and here, too, she makes demands of him, in this case demanding a doubling of her ketubah. In 1.1, this reversal of normal power is translated into human terms in the statement which immediately follows that mashal: “The Torah teaches you proper conduct, telling you that the bridegroom may not enter the bridal canopy until the bride gives him permission.”15 The emphasis on the woman’s power here in relation to the man is parallel to Israel’s power in relation to God. Elsewhere, the sense of God’s surprisingly humble position in relation to Israel is expressed in the physical terms of sitting and standing: R. Berekhiah said in the name of R. Levi: [The Lord appeared to him at the terebinths of Mamre;] he was sitting (Gem 18:1)—It is written, he sat.16 When the Holy One blessed be He revealed Himself to him, our father Abraham wanted to stand up. The Holy One blessed be He said to him: Sit! Our father Abraham sat. The Holy One blessed be He said to him: Abraham, whenever your sons enter into synagogues and houses of study, they should sit, and My Glory will stand. What is the proof for this? God stands [nitsav] in the divine assembly (Ps 82:1). R. Hani said in the name of R. Isaac: It does not use the word omed for stand, but the word nitsav, meaning that He stands ready and waiting [to serve]17 (5.8).

While Abraham expects to pay tribute to God’s Glory by standing when God reveals Himself, God, in reversal of normal expectations of hierarchy, asserts that no such honor is required, and that Abraham may sit in His presence. Furthermore, the midrash asserts that God prescribed this relationship for the rabbinic present as well, for Abraham’s descendants in synagogues and houses of study. They, too, should sit while God in all His “Glory” stands. The final statement of R. Hani, pointing out the difference between nitsav and omed, goes one step further, suggesting not 15 This statement is based on the order of the Song of Songs verses. “Let my beloved come to his garden (Song 4:16),” comes before “I have come to my garden (5.1).” 16 I.e. without a vav. 17 Istamus, from the Greek ἔτοιμος, meaning “ready, prepared.” See Walter Bauer, A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature (trans. and adapt. William F. Arndt and F. Wilbur Gingrich; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1959; ed. and rev. Frederick Danker, 2000), 316. One interesting example he gives of the use of this word is in reference to a meal which, when it is ready to be served, is said to be ἔτοιμος. The implication for our purposes is also one of readiness to serve. Note that the Hebrew term omed lifne also implies a sense of service, as in Gen 18:22. In that passage, Abraham is said to stand before God, but according to the classical commentator Rashi, the passage actually refers to God’s service of Abraham, but was changed out of respect for God.

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just that God does not desire to be honored in this way but also that God acts in something of a servant capacity, standing ready and waiting to serve Israel. This humble undemanding attitude of God is highlighted in the contrast drawn between God and a normal king in the following mashal: R. Berekhiah said: It is like a king who sent out a proclamation of his to a province. What did the people of the province do? They took it, rose to their feet, uncovered their heads and read it with awe and fear, trembling and agitation. Thus the Holy One blessed be He said to Israel: My sons, This reading of the Shma is my proclamation, but I have not burdened you; I have not told you that you should read it standing up or with heads uncovered, but rather, when you are sitting in your house and when you travel on the road, when you lie down and when you get up (Deut 6:7) (9.5).

The midrash uses the Shma’s phrases “when you are sitting in your house” and “when you lie down” to refer to God’s relaxed attitude toward His honor. Unlike a king who must have his proclamations read standing up and with great fear and trembling, this is a God who foregoes such expressions of honor and awe and allows His subjects to be comfortable, sitting down. In its biblical context, of course, the Shma phrases referred to indicate that a person must be involved in reciting God’s words all the time and everywhere, whether at home or abroad, in the evening (when one lies down) or in the morning (when one gets up). The change in understanding of the text is quite drastic, from a sense of a serious and constant obligation to a sense of a relatively light relaxed attitude. Through the contrast to the normal ways of a king, the mashal expresses here some sense of surprise at its own portrayal of God, pointing out the novelty and unusualness of its own theology. This sense of a drastic change in order, a reversal of the normal way of the world is also expressed in the following midrash about the journey out of Egypt: God did not lead them by way of the land [derekh erets] of the Philistines (Ex 13:17): This teaches that He did not treat them18 in the normal way of the world [derekh erets]. R. Levi in the name of R. Hama b. Hanina recited eight examples: 1) In the normal way of the world, the water comes from

18 Lo nihagan. Sokoloff (342) translates the verb ‫ נהג‬as either “to do something often” or “to treat in a certain way.” Both meanings are implied here, as God treats Israel in a special way repeatedly. Note that Jastrow (880) translates the Hebrew version of this word as “lead, conduct,” which is also a possible translation for this phrase in the midrash; in that case the meaning would follow the biblical verse more closely. It is possible that both the “treat/practice” and the “lead” meanings are implied by the midrash.

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chapter four above and the bread from below. However, here the bread comes from above and the water from below. The bread from above, I will rain down bread for you from the sky (Ex 16:4). And the water from below, Then Israel sang this song: spring up, O well—sing to it (Num 21:17). 2) In the normal way of the world, a student carries the lantern and walks in front of the Rav. Here, however, The pillar of cloud by day and the pillar of fire by night did not depart from before the people (Ex 13:22). 3) In the normal way of the world, a student walks in front and the Rav behind. Here, however, The Lord went before them (Ex 13:11). 4) In the normal way of the world, a student bathes his Rav. Here, however, I bathed you in water (Ezek 16:9). 5) In the normal way of the world, a student clothes his Rav. Here, however, I clothed you with embroidered garments (Ezek 16:10) . . . 6) In the normal way of the world, a student puts on his Rav’s shoes. Here, however, And gave you sandals of the dolphin leather to wear (Ezek 16:10). 7) In the normal way of the world, a student carries his Rav. Here, however, I bore you on eagles’ wings (Ex 19:4). 8) In the normal way of the world, the Rav sleeps while the student stands [watch] over him. Here, however, See, the guardian of Israel neither sleeps nor slumbers! (Ps 121:4) (11.8).

Here we see God’s behavior explicitly marked as unusual, as countercultural, as a reversal of the normal ways of the world. The normal ways of the world are depicted through the paradigmatic hierarchical relationship of a rabbi and his disciple; the disciple is expected to serve his master and show deference to him in a variety of ways.19 God, however, chooses to reverse this power dynamic and play the servant’s role to Israel in the desert, leading the way with a light, bathing them and standing watch over them while they sleep. Note in the last instance the presence of the theme of sitting and standing already seen in two other midrashim above; here is a God who stands while His people sit. In certain ways this text is similar to the “world upside-down” prints popular in Europe beginning in the sixteenth century. According to James Scott, these prints depicted a topsy-turvy world in which all the normal relations and hierarchies were inverted. Mice ate cats, children spanked parents, . . . the poor man gave alms to the rich man, the goose put the cook into the pot, the king on foot led a peasant on horseback, fish flew in the air and so on in seemingly endless profusion.20

19 See Levine, The Rabbinic Class, 59–61 for a description of the Sage-Disciple relationship. 20 Scott, Domination, 167.

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Scott considers these prints examples of a subtle art of resistance by the oppressed, a way of imagining a world with very different power relations for the ultimate purpose of enacting such changes in revolution. Our text is similar to these world upside-down images in its depiction of a world in which power dynamics are reversed. The power of these images is to drive home a sense of a radical change in the order of the universe. There is a similarity too in the inclusion in our text of an example unrelated to power or hierarchy, the depiction of the water/bread change. Scott discusses such non-power-related examples (e.g. fish flying in the air) in his world upside-down prints as well; their inclusion is a way of masking the subversive nature of the other reversals as well as a way of enlarging the scale of the disorder. However, there are also certain important differences between our text and these world upside-down prints. First, Scott’s images, because they rely on long pre-existing world hierarchies and orders, only summon up one side of the imagery, the subverted side, the image of the peasant on horseback and the nobleman on foot. Our texts, by contrast, first establish “the normal order of the world,” the way the rabbi-disciple relationship usually works, before moving on to subvert it. This is partly because the order they are reversing is not really part of a world order, but their own rabbinic creation within rabbinic society. The text thus performs two functions at the same time; it establishes an order, a rabbinic order of power, and then breaks it down. Furthermore, many of Scott’s images depict the normally powerful person or animal as being forcibly pushed down by the oppressed; the nobleman is being made to walk by foot leading the peasant on horseback. It is a war, “the war of the rats against the cats,” as one set of prints was called. By contrast, our text has none of this combative avenging feel to it. God Himself, the powerful one, is the one who establishes the break in order. It is He who “leads” the people not in the normal way of the world. This difference fits well with the role God plays elsewhere in the changes taking place in these midrashim. That is, as we noted above, it is always God who changes and makes the changes, moving from an awesome to a more personal God. And so, here it is He who decides to reverse the normal sense of hierarchy and act as the servant to His people. Scott argues against those who suggest that world upside-down prints are designed by the elite as substitutes for real revolution; his prints do indeed seem to come from the oppressed themselves, in their angry subversive form. Our text, on the other hand, has all the markings of emerging from the elite.

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In its depiction of a God who, though powerful, agrees to act in a nonpowerful way, it represents for us the work of the rabbis themselves who created these midrashim. They are indeed creating a kind of a revolution in religious thought, but it is a revolution from above, from the rabbinic elite itself, as a way of attracting a new population through an indulgent accomodationist rhetoric. This text expresses well the ambivalence toward rabbinic power prevalent in PRK midrashim. On the one hand, this is a text about letting go of power, about God’s and therefore the rabbis’ ability to let go of power in service (and in pursuit of persuasion) of the people. On the other hand, to let go of power one must first have some power. In comparing their own rabbinic relationships to God’s relationship to Israel, they have taken on some of God’s power, and also taken the opportunity to spell out how their hierarchies normally work. The rabbi-disciple relationships are a way of speaking about their own power and relinquishing it at the same time, for the sake of acquiring authority among the people. They cede the power they never really had among the people in the hopes of gaining authority. This midrash’s reversal of relationships is also a mechanism for dealing with what they may have thought was their public image. In the tannaitic period, the rabbis worked almost exclusively in their rabbi-disciple relationships, so that for the rabbis of the amoraic period writing and editing these midrashim, their public self-image may have been that of the demanding, authoritarian image of the rabbi-disciple relationship. This midrash works to dispel that image, to suggest that this generation of rabbis has a new attitude toward power and service. Our final example of divine humility is far less extreme than the one just studied, but in its own subtle mundane way makes it clear to what extent this new lowly image of God pervades these midrashim. In chapter 21, one of the consolation chapters, there is a line that appears repeatedly at the end of a number of midrashim, and serves as a kind of midrashic restatement of the parashah verse. The line reads: “The Holy One blessed be He said to Israel: My children, since your light is my light and my light is your light, let’s you and I go and light up Zion” (21.1). The parashah verse reads: “Arise, shine, for your light has dawned; The Glory of the Lord has shone upon you” (Is 60:1). At first glance, there seems to be little difference between the midrashic rendering and the biblical verse. Both speak of God’s light and Israel’s light and their relationship. There is a subtle difference, however, in the type of relationship envisioned. In

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the biblical verse, God’s light shines on Israel from above; the word al, “on” or “upon” is used multiple times in this verse and the verse that follows to refer to God’s light in relation to Israel, clearly indicating that God resides above Israel. There is also a sense of honor and awe implied by the term kavod, “Glory,” attached to the Lord’s name. By contrast, the midrashic rendering emphasizes togetherness; God tells Israel that they share a light, have the same light, and therefore will go together to light up Zion. There is a sense here that God and Israel are on equal footing, on the same earthly ground; God does not put Himself above Israel but stands with them, next to them. Again, this example does not explicitly call attention to itself as offering an unusual theology, but in its subtlety, demonstrates the pervasiveness of the unusual theology marked as such in 11.8 above. Indeed, throughout these midrashim we find such a God, an earthly humble God who puts Himself on the same plane as Israel. Before moving on to the theme of indulgence, it should be noted that the theme of humility crops up in relation to non-divine subjects as well. That is, in a general way, humility and lowliness are valued in these midrashim, whether in relation to God or in relation to humans. Thus, for instance, the second half of the petihta 9.4, on the petihta verse phrase, “God seeks the pursued,” offers a long list of examples and a discussion of God’s historical favoring of those who are pursued and persecuted. 24.5 similarly speaks of God’s love for brokenness in humans, pointing out the contrast between the unacceptable damaged animal and the prized broken and lowly human heart. Indulgence In 9.5, mentioned above, we saw an example of God’s humility in His insistence that there is no need to read His proclamation standing up and in great fear and trembling as one would a document arriving from the emperor. This same midrash introduces us to our next theme, the theme of indulgence. In asserting that He has no need for such demonstrations of awe, God says, “I have not burdened you,” lo hitrahti alekhem. This statement is an argument, an attempt to portray Himself in a positive light, as an easy-going, undemanding God who does not burden or make excessive demands on His people. These very words are found elsewhere in a similar argument on behalf of God: The Holy One blessed be He said: I have given you ten pure animals, three under your domain and seven not under your domain . . . Did I burden you

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chapter four [shema hitrahti alekha] by making you search all over the hills and the valleys in order to bring before Me a sacrifice from those that are not under your domain? After all, I told you only [to bring] from that which is under your domain and from that which grows up in your manger! (6.1).

Again, the text is engaged in an argument on behalf of God, trying to prove that He is an easy-going, undemanding God.21 A similar feeling is created through the repeated use of another phrase, “It is not as you imagine it,” lo keshe’atah savur, a phrase that is used to make it clear to Moses that God’s commands are easier than he had imagined them to be. Thus, for instance, when Moses hears about the notion of sacrifices, he says, “Master of the Universe, if I gather all of the animals in the world, is there in them [enough] for even one offering?” to which God replies, “Moses, it is not as you think [lo keshe’atah savur], but rather, Say to them: These are the offerings by fire (Num 28:3), and not two at once, but rather one in the morning and one at twilight (2.10).” God responds similarly when Moses worries about his ability to count the Israelites, the possibility of making a sanctuary big enough to contain God, as well as other concerns. God’s replies are always meant to assure Moses that things are easier than he had imagined. This theme of non-burdensome commandments may be related to the actual changes rabbis were making in halakhah during the amoraic period, easing restrictions like those on certain forms of usury, certain types of figural representations, as well as the export of fruit and wine outside of Palestine and gentile oil.22 The midrashim above portray an aggadic version of this halakhic movement toward legal relaxation; the rabbis are not just involved in easing the laws, but also working hard to develop a rhetoric that publicizes this relaxed attitude. This sense that God is out to make things easy and not hard for Moses and Israel was also expressed in the mashal we studied in detail in chapter 2, 12.3. There we saw God arguing against a pedagogue who wanted the son to go directly back to school after illness; God, on the other hand, like the father/king, wanted His son, Israel, to have time to relax and luxuriate before being burdened with the Torah. Similarly, in a midrash on prayer, God is reported as saying: I told you that you should pray in the synagogue that is in your city, and if you are not able to do that, you should pray in your field, and if you

21 22

See the end of 2.10 for another example of this type of language. Levine, The Rabbinic Class, 31, and others. See chapter 7 for a full discussion.

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are not able to do that, you should pray inside your house, and if you are not able to do that, you should pray on your bed, and if you are not able to do that, you should think in your heart; ponder it on your bed, and sigh (Ps 4:5) (24.4).

The task keeps getting easier and easier, as God makes allowances for those who cannot make it to the synagogue or out of their houses or even out of their beds. We find this theme in relation to repentance as well: In the normal way of the world [benohag sheba’olam], if a person stands and embarrasses his fellow in public and after some time desires to make amends, he [the other person] says to him: You embarrass me in public and then make amends to me in private?! Go and bring those people before whom you embarrassed me, and I will be appeased. But the Holy One blessed be He is not like this. Rather, if a person stands and shames and curses in the market, the Holy One says to him: Do repentance in private and I will accept you (24.12).

Here God makes repentance easy for people, easier in fact, than it is in the normal way of the world. As with the contrast to the trembling standing reading of the royal proclamation, here, too, the surprising and unusual nature of this undemanding God is emphasized through a contrast to “the normal way.” God’s indulgence is not only manifest in the ways in which He tries to make things easier for His people, tries to minimize His own demands and commands, but also in the ways in which He approaches issues of sin and judgment. Here, too, PRK portrays an undemanding God, a God who is eager not to judge but to forgive and who will come to the people’s defense even when it seems unwarranted. Indeed, the texts below make it clear that God’s actions are not based on truth, but quite the contrary, that He is unexpectedly and undeservedly forgiving of the people’s sins. The following midrash contains an image that is paradigmatic of PRK’s attitude toward sins: Hark! My beloved! There he comes, leaping over mountains, bounding over hills (Song 2:8). R. Nehemiah said: Hark! My beloved! There he comes: This is Moses. When he came and told Israel: This month you are being redeemed, they said to him: Our rabbi Moses, how are we to be redeemed when the land of Egypt is full of our disgusting idolatry? He said to them: Since He is desirous of your redemption, He is not looking at your idolatry, but rather leaping over mountains, bounding over hills. “Mountains” means houses of idolatry, as it says, They sacrifice on the mountaintops and offer on the hills (Hos 4:13) (5.7).

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The image of God leaping over the people’s sins conveys the sense of God’s eagerness to avoid the people’s sins. The sins exist; indeed, they stand tall as mountains, but God is not presently interested in sins and judgment but in intimacy and redemption and so He bounds happily over them. Note that here, too, it is God’s change that is highlighted, not the people’s; their sins remain, but it is God who decides to jump over them. The parallel to the rabbis’ work is that they are not expecting people to change in order to join them, but rather they understand that what is required is their own shift in attitude, their own ability to take an indulgent jump like God’s and simply ignore the people’s sinful ways. The sense that God is not involved in these midrashim in real judgment is explicitly addressed in the following mashal: R. Levi said in the name of R. Hama b. Hanina: It is like the son of a king who had to appear for judgment before his father. His father said to him: If you want to be declared innocent before me in judgment, appoint soand-so, the winner of legal arguments,23 and you will be declared innocent before me. So too the Holy One blessed be He said to Israel: My children, if you mention the merit of your fathers, you will be declared innocent before me in judgment (23.7).

This mashal makes it clear that the whole trial is a charade; God in His capacity as father helps His children win their trial in His capacity as judge, so that there is no real honest judgment here. In his advisement of who to use as a legal advocate, the father assures his son’s success at trial. In the mashal above, God is in the complicated position of serving as both judge and father. In other meshalim, God is depicted as the defender against judgments that come from the outside. These judgments may be true or untrue, but in these midrashim God generally takes the position of the defender. Thus, for instance, 11.6 tells a mashal about a king whose daughters married themselves off legitimately while he was away; when he returned, he heard people mocking his daughters and accusing them of behaving unchastely. The king then brought all the people together to show them that these men were his sons-in-law, the legitimate husbands of his daughters. In this case, the parallel to the people of Israel is a case

23 Nikologos. This translation follows Saul Lieberman’s note in the Mandelbaum edition, 475. He suggests that the word is a combination of the word νικάω, which, according to Bauer, means “to be victor, prevail” and λόγος, “law.” Lieberman’s term is “a person who wins at law.” See Bauer, A Greek-English Lexicon, 539. See also Jastrow, 908, who translates the word as “a pleader in a law-suit.”

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in which Israel did indeed behave chastely and thus was deserving of God’s defense. In another mashal, however, the same type of defense is mounted by God in reference to the sin of the Golden Calf, which the people clearly did commit: With their evil, they make a king merry (Hos 7:3): Why did He make the ox the head of the other sacrifices? R. Levi said: It is like a woman who develops a bad reputation in relation to one of the officials of the Empire. The king investigated the matter, and did not find any truth to rumors. What did he do? He made a banquet and seated this man at the head of the company. Why did he do all this? In order to make it known that the king had investigated the matter and had not found any substance to it. So, too, since the nations of the world were making fun of Israel, saying to them: You made the Golden Calf, The Holy One blessed be He investigated the matter and did not find any substance to it. Therefore, the ox came to be the head of the sacrifices. When an ox or a sheep or a goat is born (Lev 22:27) (9.7).

This is a radical text, one that apparently declares that God investigated the sin of the Golden Calf and found the people innocent. It was to announce their innocence that He gave the ox, related to the calf, such a prominent first position in the Leviticus verse. How we are to understand this notion of the people’s innocence with respect to the Calf is less important than the picture of God this text conveys, a picture of a God whose goal is not to judge the people—the nations have taken charge of that job—but to defend them. God’s eagerness not just to defend, but also to forgive His people is a prominent theme in chapter 24, the chapter on the parashah reading for the Sabbath between Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur. The following midrash makes it clear how surprising and unusual this attitude of forgiveness is for a leader: It is like a robber on trial before an investigative judge. As long as he protests his innocence, he is flogged. Once he confesses his guilt, he receives a verdict. But the Holy One blessed be He is not like this. Rather, until the person confesses, He gives him a verdict; once he confesses, he is allowed to go free (24.8).

The contrast to the Roman investigative judge helps to highlight the unusual nature of God’s desire to allow people not to be punished once they have admitted their wrongdoing. Themes of indulgence and forgiveness are perhaps natural for chapters dealing with the parashah readings for Rosh HaShanah (chapter 23) and

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for the Sabbath between Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur (chapter 24). Indeed, many of the examples above were from these chapters, although it should be noted that a good many were from other parts of Pesikta deRav Kahana as well. What is more surprising, however, and therefore more enlightening, are examples of this trend toward indulgence in the chapters on the haftarah readings for the “Weeks of Rebuke.” Admittedly, there are many examples of midrashim on the theme of rebuke, as would be natural given the biblical prooftexts and their themes. Below are a few examples from these chapters of rebuke where we see surprising hints of indulgence. Most of the examples are from chapter 14, on the second of the haftarot of rebuke (Jer 2:4–28), a haftarah text which, as Elsie Stern writes, is “the most vituperative of the three haftarot of rebuke,” “a scathing condemnation of the sins of Israel’s ancestors as well as those of the current generation.”24 Thus to find even hints of a more indulgent, less angry attitude in the midrashim on this text is indeed a sign of an effortful thematic and rhetorical agenda on the part of the midrashic writers and editors.25 The final midrash of the chapter is probably the clearest and strongest example of this trend toward toning done the rebuke: They went after things of nought [hevel] and have become nought (Jer 2:5). R. Isaac said: It is like the son of a banker who had a due bill come out against him. He was frightened, saying, Maybe this debt is for 100 gold coins or 200 gold coins. The creditor said to him: Do not be afraid; it is a debt for a measure of bran and of barley, and anyway, it is already paid. So, too, the Holy One blessed be He said to Israel: My children, this idolatry that you are passionately running after is not made of anything real, but rather, They are nothing [hevel], a work of mockery (Jer 10:15) (14.7).

The mashal creates the impression here that God, the creditor, considers idolatry to be only a slight misdemeanor, like the debt of bran as opposed to gold, and that in any case, it is a debt which has already been paid. This notion of the relative insignificance of the sin of idolatry is created through the combination of the mashal’s story about a debtor and the midrashic spin put on Jeremiah’s condemnation of idolatry as hevel, nothingness. Jeremiah uses the term to show how terribly Israel sinned, going after nothingness instead of after God, but the midrash uses the reference

24

Stern, From Rebuke to Consolation, 41–42. Note that Braude and Kapstein also find this chapter to be less harsh than one would expect, as they describe it as “mild reproach.” Braude and Kapstein, Pesikta, 355. 25

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to nothingness as a way to tone down the level of anxiety regarding the magnitude of the sin. 14.4 also has hints of an indulgent attitude even amidst its rebuke: It is like a woman who brought26 her husband the king two myrtles. She lost one of them and was very upset about it. The king said to her: Keep this [other] one as if you had kept both of them. So, too, Israel stood at Mount Sinai and said: All that the Lord has spoken we will do [Na’aseh] and we will listen [Nishma] (Ex 24:7)! They lost Na’aseh; They have made [Asu] themselves a molten calf (Ex 32:8). The Holy One blessed be He said to them: Keep Nishma as if you had kept both of them.

The midrash then proceeds to a long list of words and ways of listening that Israel is subjected to as a result of not listening to God. They are made to listen to words of rebuke and made to listen to them outside the land, referring to the punishment of exile, and made to listen to them dead instead of alive. In spite of this list, the initial tone of the mashal, which, it should be noted, has no real parallel in the list that follows but only in the initial comparison I have cited, is not angry but conciliatory. God, like the husband/king, is trying to help his wife feel better about a loss that has very much upset her. The mashal implies that God’s goal is to comfort Israel for her loss of a prized possession, like a flower. God is not in the powerful angry position of rebuking her, but in the conciliatory position of trying to put a positive spin on the situation by reminding her that she still does have one flower. The midrashic turn away from rebuke is also in evidence in 14.5. There the verse being interpreted is the first verse of the haftarah: Thus said the Lord: What wrong did your fathers find in Me that they abandoned Me and went after delusion and were deluded? (Jer 2:5). In its biblical context, the verse is a condemnation of the people for forsaking God, as is made explicit later in the passage when God says, Oh, I will go on accusing you (Jer 2:9). The midrash includes a number of different interpretative passages, only one of which, the first, has any note of rebuke in it. The second example offers a condemnation of Pharaoh, not Israel, but it is the third example to which I will devote some attention. Here the point of the midrash is indeed to admonish someone, namely Moses, but it is to admonish him for being too judgmental of Israel: 26

Hikhnisah, literally “brought in.” Braude and Kapstein seem right to suggest that this term implies that she brought these items as part of her dowry. The parallel to Israel at Sinai further strengthens this reading, as Sinai is understood rabbinically as the sight of Israel’s marriage to God. Braude and Kapstein, Pesikta, 360.

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chapter four Moses did not find any wrong in Me and you have found wrong in Me? To what may Moses be compared? To a king who entrusted his son to his pedagogue.27 He said to him: Do not call my son a moreh. What is the meaning of this term moreh? R. Reuven said: The Greeks use this term to shout at foolish people: moros.28 One time he [the son] made him [the pedagogue] angry and he called him a moreh. The king said to him: With all my might I commanded you not to call my son a moreh, and you have called my son a moreh? A clever person has no business traveling with a moron. So, too, it is written, The Lord spoke to both Moses and Aaron, instructing them in regard to the Israelites (Ex 6:13). What did He instruct them? He said to them: Do not call my children morim. Once they made him angry at the Waters of Meribah, Moses said to them: Listen, you morim (Num 20:10).29 The Holy One blessed be He said to them: With all my might I commanded you not to call my children morim and you have called my children morim? A clever person has no business traveling with a moron. It is not written, Therefore you shall not lead in the singular, but, Therefore you shall not lead in the plural (Num 20:12): Not you nor your brother nor your sister will go up to the land of Israel.

Yes, there is a tone of rebuke here, but it is not the rebuke of the people of Israel, with whom the contemporary audience of this midrash would identify. Rather, it is a rebuke of the Israelites’ leader, Moses, with whom the leaders of the contemporary audience, the very rabbinic writers of this midrash themselves would identify. Moreover, Moses is being admonished for the way he treats the people, for calling them morim, which, as it is translated in this midrash, seems to mean fools or morons. Moses is being admonished for being too judgmental, too critical of the people. What God wants, and what He specifically instructs “with all His might” is a leader who will not criticize His children. This midrash sanctions exactly the type of indulgent non-judgmental attitude PRK generally adopts. In condemning Moses’ judgmental attitude, the midrash suggests that leaders should not be overly critical of their people but rather adopt an attitude like that of PRK. As noted earlier, the amoraic period was known to be a time during which a new more positive attitude toward the people began to develop and certain derogatory terms like am ha’arets, in great use in the tannaitic period, fell into disuse. Our midrash’s interpretation of the term morim, literally “rebels,”

27

See note on page 32 on the role of the pedagogue in Roman society.

28

Μωρός, “foolish, stupid.” See Bauer, A Greek-English Lexicon, 531, and Mandelbaum’s

note to this text. Foolishness was a popular Christian insult. See for instance 1 Corinthians 1:27 which uses the same term. 29 In the Bible, the word means “rebels.”

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as meaning fools or morons, makes the tannaitic term am ha’arets, which means something like “boor,” a good fit. What is being condemned is not an attitude of righteous anger, as is implied by “rebels,” but rather an attitude of judgment based on (intellectual) snobbery. Whatever else the midrash says, it certainly does not offer strong rebuke of the Israelites, but turns and spins the rebuke of the Jeremiah verse in new directions. Another example of such a turn is 15.4. In that midrash, God is compared to a king with two sons. When the first son angers him, he strikes him and sends him away bemoaning the fate of the son himself. When the second son angers him, however, he strikes him and sends him away too, but this time he blames himself. “He said: It is my fault, for my rearing of him was bad.” This is a remarkable statement to associate with God. Here the rebuke is indeed turned away from Israel, but it is not turned onto enemies or even onto leaders, but onto God Himself. As with the other themes, so, here, too, with respect to the development of a rhetoric of indulgence, we find certain hints within the midrashic texts themselves of a consciousness of the novelty and change involved in the development of such a rhetoric. Chapter 23 deals with the Torah reading for Rosh HaShanah, In the seventh month, on the first day of the month (Lev 23:24). One of the most pronounced themes of this chapter in PRK is God’s movement “from the attribute of justice to the attribute of mercy.”30 While this theme is not a surprising one for Rosh HaShanah, it should be noted that other themes were equally possible, such as the theme of God’s coronation and kingship, and indeed the theme of His judgment. It thus seems significant that the chosen theme is God’s mercy and not His judgment and that this theme is captured here repeatedly in terms of movement or change. Moreover, it seems significant that the theme of divine movement toward mercy is more prominent than the theme of human movement toward improved actions and repentance. Consider the following midrash: R. Abba the son of R. Papi and R. Yehoshua of Sikhnin said in the name of R. Levi: All the days of the year Israel is busy with their work, but on Rosh HaShanah they pick up shofars and blow them and the Holy One blessed be He gets up from the chair of judgment and sits on the chair of

30 For a detailed analysis of this chapter and its theological emphasis on the acquittal of man, see Lou H. Silberman, “A Theological Treatise on Forgiveness: Chapter Twenty-three of Pesiqta derab Kahana” in Studies in Aggadah, Targum and Jewish Liturgy in Memory of Joseph Heinemann (ed. Jakob J. Petuchowski and Ezra Fleisher; Jerusalem: The Magnes Press, Hebrew University and Hebrew Union College Press, 1981), 95–106.

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chapter four mercy and is filled with mercy for them and changes for them from the attribute of justice to the attribute of mercy (23.11).

Human movement is limited to the movement from work to the blowing of the shofar, but divine movement is very profound and elaborate, from one chair to the other and from one attribute to the other. In other midrashim, of course, mention is made of the human need to change, but again it is alongside a fairly elaborate depiction of divine movement: Shofar (Ps 81:4): Improve your deeds (shipru). The Holy One said: If you improve your deeds before Me, behold I will become for you like this shofar. Just as with this shofar, air enters on one side and exits on the other, so I too get up from the chair of justice and sit down in the chair of mercy and am filled with mercy for you and have mercy on you and change for you from the attribute of justice to the attribute of mercy (23.8).

The image of the physical shofar as an instrument of change from one side to the other is used here to capture the notion of divine change. And that divine change is then expanded and elaborated through the use of a number of different metaphors, first in reference to chairs and then in reference to attributes. This particular description of divine movement is repeated frequently in this chapter, adding to our sense of the special PRK focus on change with respect to the notions of indulgence and mercy.31 I understand this special interest in such divine change as a sign of the rabbis’ consciousness of the changes involved in their own movement toward a rhetoric of indulgence in PRK. Chapter 24, on the haftarah for the Sabbath of Repentance, does of course deal thematically with the issue of human change and repentance. Here, too, however, we find a surprising emphasis on divine change as well. Consider the following midrash: R. Levi said: The Holy One blessed be He said to Jeremiah: Go tell Israel to repent. He went and told them. They said to him: Our rabbi Jeremiah, how are we to repent? How can we appear before the Place? Haven’t we angered Him and haven’t we provoked Him? Aren’t those very hills where we used to do idolatry still in existence? They sacrifice on the mountaintops (Hos 4:13). Let us lie down in our shame, let our disgrace cover us (Jer 3:25). Jeremiah came before the Holy One blessed be He and told Him what the people had said. He [the Holy One] said to him: Go tell them: Did I not write for you in My Torah, I will set My face against that person and cut him

31

A similar phrase for the change from judgment to mercy is used in 4.4.

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off from among his people (Lev 20:6)? Did I do this to you? Rather, I will not look on you in anger, for I am compassionate—declares the Lord; I do not bear a grudge for all time (Jer 3:12) (24.16).

The people feel that they cannot approach God in repentance because God is angry with them and their sins are still in evidence on the mountaintops. God replies by assuring them that He himself has changed, that although in the Torah He said He would cut off those who do idolatry, He has not done so, but has rather turned toward compassion. He has changed since the time of the Torah and now has a new attitude of compassion. This description of God’s transformation speaks of a transformation between the time of the Torah and the time of Jeremiah, but it may also refer to the transformation involved in the creation of an indulgent work like PRK, a transformation which may itself have been modeled on the change from the Torah to the Prophets. In the above passage God contradicts His own words from the Torah in order to introduce a new more compassionate self. The following midrash has God make a similar claim: Good and upright is the Lord; therefore He shows sinners the way (Ps 25:8): They asked Wisdom: What is a sinner’s punishment? She said to them: Misfortune pursues sinners (Prov 13:21). They asked Prophecy: What is a sinner’s punishment? She said to them: The person who sins [only he] shall die (Ezek 18:4). They asked the Torah: What is a sinner’s punishment? She said to them: Let him bring a guilt-offering and his sin will be atoned for.32 They asked the Holy One blessed be He: What is a sinner’s punishment? He said to them: Let him repent and his sin will be atoned for, as it is written, Good and upright is the Lord; therefore He shows sinners the way (Ps 25:8) (24.7).

Three different types of literature in the Hebrew Bible are here personified and given a voice, wisdom literature, prophetic literature and the Torah, the Pentateuch. Along with God, each one of these personified literatures is asked the same question regarding how to deal with a sinner, and the result is a list of four possibilities from the misfortune and death of Wisdom and Prophecy to the sacrifice and repentance of the Torah and God. The two latter possibilities are of course far more lenient than the first two, imagining the possibility of atonement rather than punishment, but it is finally only God’s voice which speaks to the present, which offers an alternative that is both contemporary and lenient. Unlike the

32

See for instance Lev 5:6.

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temple-bound sacrifices, God’s suggestion of repentance moves beyond history, offering the last and most relevant word on the subject. It is also the answer given special preference because of its tie to the Psalms petihta verse, “Good and upright is the Lord; therefore He shows sinners the way.” It is this last answer of God’s which is then the point of the petihta, the reason the darshan chose this petihta verse. Interestingly enough, as the final favored view of the darshan, God’s lenient voice stands in contradiction to the earlier textual voices, implying again some consciousness on the part of the darshan of his own novelty with respect to the generally harsher textual tradition he has inherited. Probably the strongest expression of an awareness of change with regard to the issue of indulgence can be seen in 9.5. 9.5 lists a series of three examples in which God originally came to rebuke the people but changed heart when He heard the gloating of the nations of the world. In each case, the midrash records that God “turned it around for them for the good.” In response to this change, the nations of the world are reported as saying: “Is this a response? Is this an admonition? He has come only to sport33 with His children.” The perspective of the nations of the world is telling; they have the last word, and presumably they are right; God’s change in attitude now implies that He did not intend to have a serious angry encounter with His children but merely to play with them and indulge them. The fact that the midrash represents this indulgent attitude as a change in God is significant. His “turning it around for them for the good” represents the spin or turn required in these midrashim to create a feeling of indulgence and not judgment. The third and final example in 9.5 illustrates the nature of this turn: When He said, The Lord once indicted Judah (Hos 12:3), the nations of the world rejoiced, saying, Now He will destroy them from the world. When the Holy One blessed be He saw that the nations of the world were happy, He turned it around for them for the good: In the womb he kicked [ JPS: tried to supplant] his brother (Hos 12:4). It is like a woman who was complaining about her son to the judge. When she saw the judge sitting and judging and killing, she said: If I make known to the judge my son’s transgression, he will kill him right now. What did she do? She waited until

33 Lemitpogegah. From root ‫פוג‬, “to evaporate, to soothe.” Jastrow reads the itpo’el form found here as “to seek relaxation from anger, trouble etc., seek diversion, sport” (1139). Sokoloff reads it as “to be soothed,” and translates this specific phrase as, “he only came to be soothed with his sons” (425). Braude and Kapstein translate in a way that strengthens my reading of the passage: “He has come merely to be indulgent with His children” (238).

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he had stopped judging. Once he had stopped judging, he said to her: What transgression did this son of yours do to you? She said to him: When he was in my womb he kicked me. He said to her: But has he done anything to you now? She said to him: No. He said to her: There is no transgression in this thing at all. The nations of the world were surprised. They said: Is this a response? Is this an admonition? This after that? He has come only to sport with His children.

This mashal represents for us the process of change by which God comes to move from a position of anger and rebuke to a position of play and indulgence. The change is represented here as involving a decision not to tell the whole truth, a decision to pretend that the transgression was far less than it really was, as the mother does in this story, telling the judge that her only complaint against her son happened in the womb! This kind of turning and hiding of the truth is a good figure for the act of midrashic interpretation, the act of spinning the text to be read in a new more indulgent light. Such a midrashic spin in fact takes place in the midrash itself. The Hosea verse telling of Jacob’s attempt to supplant his brother in the womb is intended to convey how early Jacob’s deceitfulness began. In the midrash, however, it is used by the mother as a way to limit her son’s misdeeds to those of the womb, changing the attempt to supplant his brother to a normal kick in the womb. The mother obviously came with something more serious to report as she says, “If I make known to the judge my son’s transgression, he will kill him right now.” Her change of the accusation shows a certain self-consciousness on the part of the darshan about his own subtle and not so subtle changes and spins. The process of change is also depicted in this midrash as a process of moving away from the frame of reference of judges and judgment toward the frame of reference of parents. The text emphasizes that the woman waited till after the judge had stopped judging. There is no logical reason for this wait in the story; he still deals with her in his capacity as judge, asking about the son’s transgression and passing judgment on the severity of the case. The text’s emphasis on the woman’s desire to wait till after the judge had finished judgment implies that the woman made a decision to distance herself from trials and judgments. Furthermore, the transgression she reports, his kicking of her womb, is not so much a transgression as it is an illustration of her reason for feeling so connected to him; she is his mother; she carried him around inside her. She therefore cannot subject him to a world of judgment but must act as a mother and save his life. This movement away from the perspective of judgment toward the perspective of motherhood is also reflected in a certain lack of clarity

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about the relationship between the characters of the mashal and the nimshal. The mother is clearly a figure for God, and the son for Israel, but whom does the judge represent? It is possible that the judge represents the nations of the world, who, in this midrash, are indeed standing in judgment. But in the midrash, it is over God Himself that they stand in judgment, questioning His seriousness with respect to His rebuke of Israel. In the mashal, however, the judge is not involved in judging the mother, but the son, Israel. The nations are given no such power in the midrash; it is only God who may decide to rebuke or to indulge His children, and in this respect it almost seems that it is God Himself whom the judge represents. Indeed, God is often represented as a judge in these meshalim. This confusion about the identity of the judge represents for us the darshan’s feelings about God and judgment. God is indeed normally associated with the figure of the judge, but in PRK, that association begins to become uncomfortable. This mashal represents for us the darshan’s new choice to change the representation of God from the figure of the judge to the figure of the mother. God is figured here as both judge and mother, but ultimately chooses the role of mother, as the mashal enacts a movement away from judgment and toward parenthood. This midrash thus serves as an illustration of the general process of PRK’s midrashic movement away from judgment toward the more intimate and indulgent perspective of the mother. Conclusion These three themes, intimacy, humility and indulgence work together to portray a certain kind of a God, a God who has lowered Himself to come down to earth to be close to human beings and to serve them, a God who does not make much of His power and His might, a God who is not angry or rebukeful and who makes few and easy demands, and a God who is solicitous and eager to please and defend His people. As I have suggested along the way, imagining God in this way may have been a way for the rabbis to express something about themselves and the way they understood their own relationship to their audiences. Like God, they need to be accommodating, indulgent and subservient in their quest for followers. They do not imagine God in a powerful position because they themselves have little power, a point they turn to positive effect. Indeed, what happens in this midrashic collection is that a religious identity is created which stands in contrast to the normal hierarchies of

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power, both rabbinic and Roman. This new God acts in a subservient and forgiving way that does not match the normal assumptions either about the power relations in rabbinic society (11.8) or the power relations in Roman society (24.8 and 9.5). The point is to create a rhetoric in which authority and admiration are gained for such anti-powerful acts, precisely for not needing the normal outward shows of honor and respect. In addition to reflecting rabbinic self-perception and building up a sense of non-power-based rabbinic authority, this rhetoric seems designed as a means of persuasion and attraction, an attempt to make rabbinic Judaism appeal to the masses. Everything is made easy and attractive for people; the commandments are easy; the people themselves will be flattered and not blamed; and they will have a close relationship to a caring personal God. Aside from its general appeal, there is a further reason to think that such a rhetoric would find buyers specifically in late antique Palestine; it is also a theological rhetoric with certain similarities to Christian notions of this period, suggesting that there may have been a shared cultural taste for a certain kind of rhetoric. Both cultures have a humble lowly incarnate God who “comes down to earth,” and develops intimate relationships with people. Such shared notions, as well as some important differences, will be explored in greater detail in the chapters that follow, but for now it should be noted that this cultural affinity may have been part of what made such a theology seem like an attractive and persuasive option to PRK’s creators. We also saw subtle signs of an awareness of the novelty of some of these themes in PRK, of a sense that these themes represent a change from what came before. It is possible to view this theme of novelty in a similar rhetorical light, as a way of attracting customers. Novelty sells, whether because Christianity has staked itself as the newer version of Judaism or simply because of a natural human excitement for novelty and change. The popularity of new things is clearly expressed in the first midrash of PRK, in the statement of the wife in 1.1 that she will only return to the palace if “he does something new for me.” The theme of novelty may also be more than a rhetorical ploy, however. It may also be a sign that these rabbis had some latent consciousness that what they were doing here was indeed new. It is to this claim that the next section is devoted, comparing tannaitic to amoraic midrashic texts with the aim of showing certain new trends in amoraic midrash. This chapter also concludes this section of the book, on the PRK text itself. One of the binding themes of these chapters has been the claim

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that these texts are often talking about themselves, about their own project and their own work, that if we listen carefully we can here them describing their goals and preferences. The sections which follow move away from this inward approach to the text to explore how the text may be viewed from the outside, first what it looks like when compared to earlier midrashic texts, and second, what it looks like from the outside world, the world of history and culture outside of the text.

PART THREE

PRK IN RELATION TO WHAT CAME BEFORE: TANNAITIC COMPARISONS

CHAPTER FIVE

FROM EXEGESIS TO HOMILY: STYLISTIC COMPARISONS Thus far we have examined the nature of the PRK text itself, its personal homiletical voice and its theology of intimacy and indulgence. Part of the claim has been one of novelty, that in PRK we see the development of a new kind of midrash. This chapter and the next one will explore this claim in greater depth by looking at some of the tannaitic midrashim that preceded the amoraic PRK historically. In order to suggest a general historical shift, rather than a single document’s unique voice, these chapters will offer a comparison between two groups of midrashim: the amoraic midrashim PRK and Leviticus Rabbah (LR), on the one hand, and four tannaitic midrashim, Mekhilta deRabbi Ishmael (Mekh), Sifra, Sifre to Numbers (Sifre Num), and Sifre to Deuteronomy (Sifre Deut) on the other hand. PRK and LR are generally considered contemporaneous, both redacted around the fifth or sixth century. They have a similar homiletical form and a similar organizational structure. They also share the exact text of five parshiyyot.1 On the tannaitic side, the midrashim were chosen in order to cover all the possible biblical books studied during the tannaitic period and to include midrashim from both the schools of R. Akiva and R. Ishmael; Mekhilta and Sifre to Numbers are considered Ishmaelan, and Sifra and Sifre to Deuteronomy, Akiban.2 Comparisons will be made based on three types of evidence. First, I offer quantitative evidence which is based on a tally of the number of times certain frequently used terms appear in the selected tannaitic and amoraic collections. These numbers were acquired through the Bar Ilan Responsa CD-Rom, with adjustments made for the unequal size of materials on each side. The results appear in the table on p. 101.

1

See discussion in the introduction to the Hebrew text appendix. Genesis Rabbah, also considered an amoraic midrash, was not included because it is something of a bridge genre, an exegetical midrash offering verse-by verse comment but making use of the petihta form. Here, I wanted to first establish the contrast using texts which create the starkest possible contrast. Genesis Rabbah also was not included because there is no parallel material in the tannaitic midrashim. 2

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The second type of evidence is anecdotal evidence, which consists of textual examples from each side to prove a certain point. Such examples provide a sense of how the midrashim actually sound and feel, a sense which cannot be acquired from the statistical evidence. On the other hand, the statistical evidence offers a more impartial take on the midrashim as examples can be deceptive. Finally, a third type of evidence brought to the discussion below is scholarship concerning the nature of these midrashim. This evidence is especially useful in characterizing tannaitic midrash, the side of the comparison which, because of this book’s general focus on the amoraic PRK, might otherwise be less complete. The comparative exploration is divided into two chapters, with this one dealing with style and the following one, with content. These two chapters roughly correspond to chapters 3 and 4, offering tannaitic comparisons to the style and content of the amoraic PRK discussed in these chapters. In terms of style, what we will see below is that tannaitic midrash is generally more intellectual, technical, precise, rigorous and thorough, and its exegesis is more constrained. By contrast, amoraic midrash appears to be more creative exegetically, less rigorous and precise, and more personal, emotional and accessible. The comparisons below have a few complicating factors. First, they are complicated by the halakhah/aggadah genre differentiation. That is, tannaitic midrash is made up of both halakhic and aggadic parts, whereas amoraic midrash is exclusively aggadic, so that one might suspect that part of the contrast set up here is simply between the halakhic parts of tannaitic midrash and the aggadic parts of amoraic midrash, a question of genre, not historical period.3 Admittedly, the contrast is stronger with halakhic parts of tannaitic midrash, but the claim here is that even when contrasted to aggadic parts of tannaitic midrash, amoraic midrash appears new and different. Partly, what we are witnessing in amoraic midrash is the development of a fully independent aggadic voice. As Natalie Dohrmann has shown, the aggadic parts of tannaitic midrash are often strongly influenced by the tone and style of their halakhic counterparts.4 Indeed, in 3 Note that large sections of tannaitic midrashim are devoted to aggadic material. Lauterbach suggests that about three-fifths of Mekhilta is aggadic. Jacob Z. Lauterbach, “Introduction” in Mekilta de-Rabbi Ishmael (trans. Jacob Lauterbach; Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society of America, 1949), xix. 4 Natalie B. Dohrmann, “Law and Narrative in the Mekilta de-Rabbi Ishmael: The Problem of Midrashic Coherence” (PhD diss., University of Chicago, 1999).

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99

the quantitative study below, technical exegetical terms were not included unless they were frequently used for both aggadic and halakhic discussion. What happens in tannaitic midrash is that aggadic exegesis, still under the influence of halakhic style, has not yet developed its own voice; here and there we see glimpses of a movement toward a new type of voice, but this voice is not fully realized until we see it in amoraic midrash, in a form of midrash exclusively devoted to aggadah. The comparisons below, then, demonstrate not so much a sharp distinction as a gradual historical development. A second complicating factor is the differentiation between tannaitic midrashim of Akiban provenance and those of Ishmaelan provenance. While the existence of these schools and their exact nature is the subject of some scholarly controversy, enough evidence exists to warrant addressing the issue. In some cases, the contrasts being drawn here between tannaitic and amoraic midrash are more true of the Ishmaelan midrashim than of the Akiban midrashim; that is, the Ishmaelan midrashim provide a stronger contrast, as Akiban midrashim are more similar in certain respects to amoraic midrash. In order to ensure that the contrasts being drawn were at least partly true of both tannaitic schools, however, the same precautions were taken as for the halakhic/aggadic issue; terms for quantitative analysis were only included if they were used by both schools. Nonetheless, the differentiation exists, and it is instructive. Part of what we will be witnessing is the adoption of certain Akiban ideas in the amoraic period, a trend already noted by a number of scholars.5 The ways in which these ideas changed and developed in the amoraic midrashim will be considered in the following chapter, as they principally concern content. On the amoraic side, there are complications as well. Just as the tannaitic side is not homogeneous, the amoraic side is not either. Leviticus Rabbah and PRK are very similar in style and content but not without difference. If anything, it often seems that PRK provides a starker contrast to the tannaitic side than LR. Neusner suggests that PRK is more thematically oriented than LR, and that PRK articulates its rhetoric more powerfully and clearly.6 It sometimes seems that LR also has a less indulgent attitude than PRK. In general, though, the two are similar enough when they stand in contrast to the tannaitic midrashim to warrant the assertion of a historical shift.

5 6

See the discussion of Neusner and Marmorstein in chapter 4. Neusner, From Tradition to Imitation, 205ff.

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The Exegetical and Intellectual Emphasis in Tannaitic Midrash The first, most obvious point of stylistic differentiation between these tannaitic midrashim and amoraic midrashim is their form. Tannaitic midrashim are considered “exegetical” midrashim, which means that they employ the form of a commentary, working through the text, phrase by phrase, verse by verse. While many tannaitic midrashim skip certain large sections of the biblical text, especially the narrative portions, the sections for which they do offer comment are thoroughly and meticulously explicated.7 The amoraic midrashim under study here are considered “homiletical” midrashim; they are organized around the lectionary calendar into parshiyyot; each parashah has three parts, the first (and generally lengthiest) consisting of a number of petihta’ot dealing with the first verse of the parashah through the means of a distant verse, followed by a few comments on some later verses, and finally a short concluding comment. In these varying formats (and the names given them by scholars), we can already see a great difference in purpose. For the tannaitic midrashim, thoroughness and precision are primary; every detail must be explicated, every word defined. The goal is an exegetical one, to interpret the text, all of it. By contrast, thoroughness and precision are not part of the task of LR and PRK; they are less concerned with details, and more with broad strokes, whole parshiyyot and their themes. Their task is less defined by the biblical text, and more defined by their own choices, as the first verses of the parshiyyot become vehicles for all sorts of thematic discussions through the importation of a foreign petihta verse. Neusner has gone so far as to say that PRK is a commentary not to a biblical text, but to the calendar.8 LR is more tied to Scripture, according to Neusner, but still far more independent than other midrashim; as he writes, in these midrashim we witness a “move from an essentially exegetical mode of logical discourse to a fundamentally philosophical one.”9

7

Mekhilta only covers 12 chapters out of 40 of the book of Exodus, and Sifre Num begins with Num 5:1 and skips some later portions of Numbers as well. 8 Neusner, From Tradition to Imitation, 164–165. 9 Neusner, Sifra in Perspective, 117, n. 3.

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101

Table II: A Comparison of the Relative Frequency of Terms in Tannaitic and Amoraic Midrashim10 Term

Frequency in Tannaitic Midrash11

Frequency in Amoraic Midrash12

Terms that Appear More Frequently in Tannaitic Midrash

‫תלמוד לומר‬13—[Therefore] Scripture teaches ‫נאמר‬, ‫—שנאמר‬It is said; As it is said ‫—יכול‬One might have thought ‫—מנין‬How do we know this ‫—הכתוב‬Scripture ‫—הוא אומר‬It [Scripture] says ‫—מלמד‬This [verse] teaches that ‫—אתה אומר‬You say ‫—והלא‬But is it not true that ‫—מגיד‬This [verse] implies that ‫—שומע אני‬Am I to understand from

2117 (4504)14

13

1394 (2967)

244

693 (1475)

66

655 (1394)

83

363 (772)

21

282 (600)

28

252 (537)

90

231 (492)

2

182 (387)

38

135 (288)

2

133 (284)

0

120 (254)

14

here [this verse] that

‫קל וחומר‬15—An argument a fortiori

10 The numbers in this table were obtained through the use of the Bar Ilan Responsa Project CD-Rom Version 15+. 11 Tannaitic collections included were: Mekhilta deRabbi Ishmael (Horowitz-Rabin); Sifra (Weiss); Sifre to Numbers (Horowitz); and Sifre to Deuteronomy (Finkelstein). 12 Amoraic collections included were: Leviticus Rabbah (Margulies) and Pesikta deRab Kahana (Mandelbaum). 13 All different forms of terms were included in the search. Thus, for ‫תלמוד לומר‬, in addition to the term as it appears, the abbreviation ‫ ת”ל‬was also included. Similarly, for example, ‫ נאמר‬was searched in that form as well as in the form ‘‫ נאמ‬and ‘‫נא‬. 14 The number given in parantheses is the actual number of times the term appears. The first non-parenthetic number is the actual number multiplied by a factor of .47 to account for the unequal size of the database of tannaitic and amoraic midrashim. This factor was calculated through a computation of the number of words in each of the four tannaitic midrashic collections under study and the number of words in each of the two amoraic midrashic collections under study. The number appearing in the amoraic column is the actual number. 15 Also included was the abbreviation ‫ק”ו‬.

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Table II (cont.) Term

‫—עשה רצונו‬He has done His will ‫ עול מלכות שמים‬and related terms16—the yoke

Frequency in Tannaitic Midrash11

Frequency in Amoraic Midrash12

35 (75)

12

7 (14)

1

6 (12)

1

36 (76)

343

49 (105) 18 (39) 0

219 16619 84

14 (30) 2 (5)22 1 (2) 0 (1) 0 (0) 0

73 54 35 6 5 5

of the kingdom of heaven

‫—אמר המקום‬The Place [i.e. God] said Terms that Appear More Frequently in Amoraic Midrash

‫אמר הקב”ה‬17—The Holy One blessed be He said

‫משל‬18—A parable ‫—שיר השירים‬The Song of Songs ‫ פתח‬x ‘‫ר‬20—Rabbi so-and-so began his proem [introductory formula to a petihta] ‫רבון העולם‬21—Master of the Universe ‫—בניי‬My children ‫חייך‬23—I swear by your life ‫—בת טובים‬The daughter of nobility ‫שמא הטרחתי‬24—Did I burden you ‫—לא כשם שאת סבור‬It is not as you think

Other terms included were: ‫עול מלכות‬, ‫עול שמים‬, ‫עול תורתן‬, and, ‫לקבל מלכות שמים‬. In addition to looking for various abbreviations of these two words, a search was also done for midrashim in which there is a word like ‫לו‬, “to him,” or ‫להם‬, “to them,” in between the word ‫ אמר‬and ‫ ;הקב”ה‬two spaces were allowed between the two words. 18 The search included a wide array of terms, taking into account that tannaitic midrash generally uses the word ‫ משל‬as part of its introductory formula while amoraic midrash does not: ‫לאחד‬, ‫לאדם‬, ‫למלך‬, ‫ה‬/‫למטרונא‬, ‫לליסטים‬, ‫לעוף‬, ‫לבן‬, ‫משל למה‬, ‫משל לה”ד‬, ‫משל לאדם‬, ‫משל למלך ‚משל לאחד‬, and ‫לאיסקפיסטי‬. If anything, this method may have undercalculated the amoraic side as the amoraic introductory terms are more variable and thus harder to locate. Care was taken to ensure that the same mashal was not counted twice as part of two different term searches. 19 Out of these 166 instances, 131 were from PRK. 20 5 spaces were allowed between the term “rabbi” and the word ‫ פתח‬in order to accommodate names with patronyms as well as citations in the names of other tradents. 21 Other forms included in the search were: ‫ רבונו של עולם‬and ‫רבון העולמים‬. 22 Only one of these tannaitic cases is truly comparable to the amoraic cases as only one is used by God with reference to the people of Israel. 23 Only those uses of the term that referred to an oath were included in this study. 24 Also included was the term ‫לא הטרחתי‬, “I did not burden you.” 16

17

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A second point of stylistic differentiation is the relative number of technical exegetical terms. The table above shows that tannaitic midrashim make frequent use of a wide array of technical terms for their exegetical work: talmud lomar, the various forms and uses of ne’emar, minayin, melamed, magid, shome’a ani and many others. These terms demonstrate that tannaitic midrash is preoccupied with the exegetical task and with the definition of that task, always making explicit reference to the precise relationship between its own words and that of the biblical text, asking: Where did this idea come from in the Bible? What new idea does this word in the verse come to teach? Exegesis is here an activity of great intellectual rigor, precision and technical expertise. By contrast, the lack of a parallel set of technical exegetical terms on the amoraic side speaks of an apparent lack of interest in defining the exegetical project with any great precision or intellectual rigor. Amoraic midrashim are certainly involved in exegetical activities; some form of the term ketiv, the amoraic Aramaic parallel to the tannaitic Hebrew term ne’emar, is used frequently.25 However, this is the simplest of the tannaitic exegetical terms, merely expressing a relationship between an idea and a biblical verse without being too precise or detailed about the exact relationship or the other possibilities of interpretation. Amoraic midrash is simply not intellectual or technical about its exegetical activities but rather speaks in very simple accessible terms. In addition to exegetical terms, there are also a number of terms of intellectual debate which are used frequently in tannaitic midrash. Terms such as yakhol, “one might have thought,” atah omer, “you say,” and vehalo, “is it not true that” function as part of a give-and-take of dialogue which is typical of these midrashim. Indeed, many of the exegetical terms, terms such as shome’a ani, “Do I learn from this [verse] that,” and talmud lomar, “Scripture teaches,” also function as part of this intellectual debate over the meaning of the text. A typical midrash will begin with a citation of a biblical text, followed by a suggested interpretation, its rejection, and the presentation of an alternative interpretation. Such debate creates the feeling of a school atmosphere of intellectual discussion. These dialogues are typical of both aggadic and halakhic interpretation, and generally concern an exegetical question.

25 Note that amoraic midrashim generally include more Aramaic than their tannaitic counterparts. For a discussion of the difference in the use of Aramaic and Hebrew in rabbinic texts, see Margoliot, “Hebrew and Aramaic.”

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Consider for instance the following aggadic example from a Mekhilta passage dealing with Pharaoh’s chase of the Israelites after they left Egypt: He took six hundred of his picked chariots: Whose were the animals that drew the chariots? If you say [im tomar] that they belonged to the Egyptians, has it not already been said [vehalo kevar ne’emar], And all the cattle of Egypt died (Ex 9:6)? And if you say that they belonged to Pharaoh, has it not already been said, Behold the hand of the Lord is upon your cattle (Ex 9:3)? And if you say that they belonged to the Israelites, has it not already been said, Our own livestock, too, shall come along with us—not a hoof shall remain behind (Ex 10:26)? Rather, to whom did they belong? To those who feared the word of the Lord. We learn from this that those who feared the word of the Lord among the servants of Pharaoh became a snare for Israel (Mekh Vayehi Beshalah 1).

Here we have a prolonged instance of such debate as each possibility is considered and rejected. There is a back and forth movement of giveand-take which suggests a school atmosphere. Note also that the subject of debate is a small detail of the text, the question of who owned the chariots Pharaoh rode. Also, the term used to present the initial suggested interpretation, im tomar, “if you say,” though not appearing frequently in these midrashim, is nonetheless typical in its use of the second person singular to refer to its interlocutor. The word “you,” atah, appears frequently in tannaitic midrashim as it refers to the Torah’s human partner in debate; you might think one way, but the Torah teaches differently. The other term used in this midrash, vehalo, “is it not true that,” used here as part of the phrase, “has it not already been said,” conveys a sense of a logical, positivist argument, one that cannot be refuted because it is based on clear-cut evidence, in this case, a biblical text. These arguments are presented as rational, logical, and exegetical. These terms of intellectual debate occur much less frequently in amoraic midrash. Dialogue and debate do occur here, too, of course, but it is usually not a logical intellectual dialogue but a personal emotional one like the ones studied in chapter 3. There we saw dialogues between God and Moses, God and Israel and Moses and Israel, and these dialogues were ones of comfort and reassurance, not logical debates about the meaning of the biblical text. An example will help to highlight some key differences: Hark! My beloved! There he comes, leaping over mountains, bounding over hills (Song 2:8). Rabbi Nehemiah said: Hark! My beloved! There he comes (Song 2:8)—This refers to Moses. When he came and said to Israel: In this month you will be redeemed, they said to him: Our rabbi Moses, how will we be

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redeemed when the land of Egypt is full of our disgusting idol worship? He said to them: Since he desires your redemption, he is not looking at your idol worship, but rather leaping over mountains, bounding over hills. Hills refers to none other than houses of idol worship, as it says, They sacrifice on the mountaintops and offer on the hills (Hosea 4:13) (PRK 5.7).

This dialogue is not so much a debate as it is a conversation in which a concern is responded to. As discussed in chapter 3, there is a type of counter-voice here, an alternative opinion to be argued against, the people’s worry over their worthiness for redemption. However, this is not an alternative opinion to be disproved and rejected as in tannaitic midrash, but rather a worry to be assuaged. The difference is one of an emotional encounter compared to a logical, intellectual encounter. The solution to the tannaitic debate is to find the right answer. The solution here is to make the people feel better. There is also a difference in the strength of the counter-voice in each. Tannaitic midrash’s debates are extremely controlled and predetermined. The human counter-voice is from the beginning a tentative one, phrased as an “if ” or an “I might have.” Before the debate even begins we know which voice is to be rejected; it is never seriously encountered as an independent opinion. In amoraic midrash, on the other hand, the alternative voice, what we have been calling the audience voice, is considerably stronger. Here, too, it is usually rejected by the more authoritative voice of God or Moses, but before it is rejected, it is heard, and heard on its own terms. Indeed, as we saw in chapter 3, often the point of the dialogue is merely to give expression to the strong emotions of the audience. Tannaitic midrash is more eager to control and silence this alternative voice; it is a straw man serving to prove Scripture’s power. The difference in the use of the biblical text is also telling. In tannaitic midrash, the text is the problem around which the debate centers—whose horses are referred to—and the biblical text also provides the proofs against various possible solutions to the problem—the horses can’t belong to the Egyptians, . . . In our amoraic text, the problem is an emotional one, not an exegetical one, and the role the biblical verse of Song of Songs plays is to provide a metaphoric way of assuring the people of their redemption. The “leaping over mountains” phrase is used to create a vivid image of God’s eagerness for redemption and willingness to overcome any obstacles. The biblical text is thus used rhetorically, as a vehicle for the production of a memorable, touching and vivid image that will have an emotional impact on its hearers.

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Finally, note that the personalities involved in dialogue here are also quite different. In tannaitic midrash, there is generally a “you” as in this text, or an “I” as in shome’a ani, “I learn from this,” on one side of the debate, and the biblical text with its talmud lomar or vehalo kevar ne’emar on the other side of the debate. The “you” or the “I” represent the average student of the text, and the Torah is represented as the teacher who corrects this student’s thinking. In amoraic midrash, by contrast, there is the worried voice of either Moses or Israel on the one hand and the comforting authoritative voice of Moses or God on the other hand. The difference is an encounter with the text as a teacher compared to a personal encounter with God or Moses. This shift to a more personal, less textual approach will be seen in many areas of contrast. Tannaitic midrash’s portrayal of Scripture as a teacher has been demonstrated by Azzan Yadin with respect to the halakhic portions of the R. Ishmael midrashim. As he shows, the personified use of the terms Torah and Hakatuv in phrases such as “The Torah spoke” or “Hakatuv comes to teach” create a sense of the Torah as having a teaching role. He describes the exegetical attitude of these midrashim as “a hermeneutics of submission, in which the lead role of Scripture in the interpretative process is constantly acknowledged and fortified.”26 The role of the exegete with respect to Scripture, Yadin argues, is that of inaction and attention, to listen, to be shome’a. In the many debates between a reader’s thinking and Scripture’s words, Scripture always wins and the reader submits. Yadin demonstrates this attitude specifically with regard to the halakhic portions of R. Ishmael midrashim, but this attitude of submission to Scripture is present in all tannaitic midrash to some extent, and generally to a greater extent than in amoraic midrash. The terms amar hakatuv and shome’a ani, both hallmarks of this attitude, are equally present in R. Akiva and R. Ishmael midrashim, and appear frequently in both aggadic and halakhic contexts, although they are more typical of halakhic midrash. The term talmud lomar is ubiquitous in all kinds of tannaitic midrash, and far less so in amoraic midrash, and it, too, clearly expresses this sentiment. Literally, it means, “Scripture comes to teach” and it is most often employed as part of a give-and-take about the meaning of a verse; an initial reader’s suggestion is followed by the rejection of that suggestion based on a biblical citation introduced by the term, talmud

26

Yadin, Scripture as Logos, 34.

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lomar, meaning that Scripture teaches otherwise through its use of this particular language. Again, Scripture is the authority, and the reader must submit. The following aggadic example makes the superlative authority of Scripture in the exegetical process clear: [And Moses took with him the bones of Joseph, who had exacted an oath from the children of Israel, saying, ‘God will be sure to take notice of you:] Then you shall carry up my bones from here with you’ (Ex 13:19): Do I understand from this verse [shome’a ani] that it means immediately? Therefore Scripture says [talmud lomar] with you, when you go up. (Mekh Vaheyi Beshalah, petihta).

Were it not for Scripture’s careful choice of language we would be adrift in our understanding of this verse, and might indeed think that Joseph had meant for his bones to be carried up immediately. Scripture teaches and in the process, Scripture limits and constrains possible interpretations and helps to rein in our thinking on the text. In amoraic midrash, Scripture does not usually play this limiting role, as the infrequent use of the term talmud lomar suggests. Indeed, there is generally far less constraint when it comes to exegetical activity in amoraic midrash; biblical texts are to be interpreted and explained, yes, and also sometimes to be mined for vivid images and memorable rhetorical expressions as in the above Song of Songs example, but they do not constrain interpretation in the same way. Scripture is played with in a way that it generally was not in the careful world of tannaitic midrash. In one midrash, for instance, PRK interprets the word vayehi in Vayehi beshalah Paroh, “Now when Pharaoh let the people go” (Ex 13:17), as an expression of the Egyptians’ dismay at the loss of the Israelites: “Vay! What have we done?” The midrash consists of three meshalim exploring the situation and in each case this word Vay is repeated as an expression of the Egyptians’ sense of loss. The expression makes much rhetorical sense and little exegetical sense. Scripture is being played with here for the sake of creating a vivid, memorable expression. What is especially interesting about this example is that Mekhilta has a very similar set of meshalim, but they appear as part of a comment to the exegetically more appropriate verse, “Pharaoh and his courtiers had a change of heart about the people” (Ex 14:5). This contrast highlights the careful exegesis of tannaitic midrash as compared to the more playful, rhetorically oriented style of amoraic midrash. Probably the clearest contrast to Scripture’s role as a limiting force in tannaitic midrash is the highly flexible voice of God in amoraic midrash.

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It is no longer only Scripture that does the authoritative talking but God Himself; instead of amar hakatuv and talmud lomar we have amar hakadosh barukh hu. The difference is that God’s voice is less constrained, freer, more creative and more contemporary. As we saw in chapter 3, amar hakadosh barukh hu is sometimes used to introduce biblical verses, but more often used to introduce either a rabbinic re-interpretation of a biblical verse or an altogether unrelated statement, often moving out of biblical time into a contemporary dialogue with the audience. The exegetical license taken in these statements of the Holy One is a striking contrast to the sense of Scriptural constraint and precision felt in tannaitic midrash. As we saw in chapter 3, the Holy One is sometimes even known to contradict Scripture; the invention of this new divine voice is a clever maneuver for exegetical freedom through an authoritative medium. Yadin points out that the R. Ishmael midrashim are true to the Ishmaelan belief in a transcendent God; God does not play a role in exegetical activity; only Scripture does, and Scripture is a less flexible master than God Himself.27 Through the voice of God, amoraic midrash manages to escape the tyranny of the written word and to offer a more inventive and contemporary exegesis. These differing attitudes toward Scripture and God’s speech may also be related to the different words used to refer to Scripture in tannaitic and amoraic midrash. In tannaitic midrash, Scripture is generally a spoken medium. Tannaitic midrash generally uses the phrase shene’emar, “as it says,” to cite a biblical verse, whereas amoraic midrash uses the phrase, dikhtiv, “as it is written.” This difference may reflect some changes in the actual use and dissemination of Scripture during this period.28 But it surely also reflects a change in exegetical attitude toward Scripture. For the tannaim, Scripture itself is the teacher, the speaker; its words are still alive enough to think of as spoken language. For the amoraim, however, Scripture is a written mode, one that is closed and distant enough to be interpreted in a free way. And, because Scripture no longer speaks, there is room for a new speaker, the Holy One. The sense of tannaitic midrash as a Scripturally constrained enterprise is a point emphasized, though in different terms, by Boyarin’s Intertextuality and the Reading of Midrash. There he demonstrates the essential continuity 27

Yadin, Scripture as Logos, 138–141. Catherine Hezser points to a general increase in written materials during this period. Catherine Hezser, “Jewish Literacy and the Use of Writing in Late Roman Palestine” in Jewish Culture and Society, 149–195. 28

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between certain midrashic practices and biblical practices. As he writes in his introductory chapter: Rather than seeing midrashic departures from what appears to be the ‘simple’ meaning of the local text as being determined by the needs of rhetoric and propaganda and rooted in the extratextual reality of the rabbinic period, or as being the product of the creative genius of individual rabbis wholly above time and social circumstance, I suggest that the intertextual reading practice of the midrash is a development (sometimes, to be sure, a baroque development) of the intratextual interpretative strategies which the Bible itself manifests.29

This sense of the continuity of interpretative practices between the Bible and the midrash is expressed throughout the book. Midrashic exegeses are not really inventions, but “choices made from interpretative options that the canon itself offers.”30 Boyarin deals, for the most part, with tannaitic aggadah, from Mekhilta deRabbi Ishmael. This sense of continuity which he expresses seems especially true of tannaitic midrash, but far less so of amoraic midrash. Boyarin’s discussion of intertexts provides an especially clear contrast to the way they are used in amoraic midrash. As Boyarin shows, these (Mekhilta) midrashim interpret Scripture by using verses in one part of the biblical canon to fill in gaps and indeterminacies in other parts of the canon. He cites two phrases used in Mekhilta that make explicit this hermeneutical method. One is “Here is a verse made rich in meaning by many passages,” and the other, “Of them it is interpreted in the tradition,” with tradition referring to the Prophets and Writings.31 Note that these phrases appear only in tannaitic midrash. As Boyarin explains, these phrases imply that interpretations of one part of the Bible are found in other parts of the Bible, and that the midrashic citation of such biblical intertexts is merely exposing intrabiblical interpretations that already exist in Scripture. Indeed, many of Boyarin’s examples from Mekhilta cite intertexts that do function in this way; they are verses that are already connected to each other in some way, so that the midrash is merely exposing an existing relationship and playing out its implications. One example of this method is the citation of Jeremiah and Nehemiah verses about the Israelite wilderness experience as part of an interpretation of an Exodus verse about the wilderness travels. Another example is the citation of Psalm 114’s “The sea 29 30 31

Boyarin, Intertextuality, 15. Boyarin, Intertextuality, 57. Discussed on pp. 28 and 48 respectively.

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saw and fled” as part of a midrash on Exodus’ description of the parting of the Red Sea. In each case, Boyarin is right to claim that the verses are already connected in the Bible and that the midrash is merely spinning out the implications of these intrabiblical interpretations. The same case cannot be made for our amoraic texts, however. While they do sometimes make use of existing connections between texts, the point is not to expose existing connections, but to create new, unexpected ones. The whole structure of the petihta is based on the assumption that there is some work and some clever exegetical virtuosity involved in creating a connection between the petihta verse and the parashah verse. The petihta verse, after all, is known as the “distant” verse. Heinemann has suggested that the petihta verse is often chosen for its very remoteness from the parashah verse in order to keep the audience in suspense as to how the darshan would manage to traverse the distance to the parashah verse which the audience knows to be the destination point.32 This understanding of the function of the intertext stands in stark contrast to Boyarin’s description of the intertext in the tannaitic Mekhilta. Tannaitic midrash’s concern is with fidelity to Scripture; it works to expose existing relations. Amoraic midrash’s concern is with novelty and innovation and the surprise they bring. Stern suggests that one purpose of the petihta is to show the amazing unity of diverse parts of Scripture; here, too, the result is all the more impressive if the parts of Scripture seem not to be speaking to each other at all.33 This notion of the unity of Scripture points to a further distinction between tannaitic and amoraic midrash. After all, both ways of citing intertexts are ways of pointing out the unity of Scripture and ways of asserting that the Bible is a self-glossing text. The difference is that tannaitic midrash respects the ways in which parts of the Bible themselves appear to be engaged in an act of interpretation. By contrast, for amoraic midrash Scripture is closed and distant, and therefore all of one piece in a new radical kind of way which does not respect borders or intentions or history. Scripture is not a living teacher telling us how to read itself, but a written word that may be played with in highly creative new ways so that parts that were biblically unconnected may now be attached to one another.

32 33

Joseph Heinemann, “The Proem in the Aggadic Midrashim,” 101. Stern, Midrash and Theory, 58.

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The Development of a Personal Homiletical Voice in Amoraic Midrash This new exegetical license and the additional distance from Scriptural constraints provided by the amar hakadosh barukh hu statements, the interpersonal dialogues and the petihta form also provide greater opportunities for the development of an independent homiletical voice in amoraic midrash. This homiletical voice manages to move easily between Scriptural time and the contemporary moment of an audience, and between the intellectual requirements of exegesis and the emotional needs of an audience. The above example of dialogue between Moses and Israel concerning the people’s worthiness for redemption is a case in point. The midrash manages to change the focus from the intellectual exercise of commenting on a verse to the homiletical exercise of responding to a people’s emotional concern. In that midrash, the contemporary nature of the concern about redemption is not explicit; elsewhere, the contemporary nature of the homiletical voice is more obvious, as in the Holy One’s statement, “My children, if you read this parashah every year, I will consider it as if you were standing before Me at Mount Sinai and receiving the Torah” (12.1). Biblical Israelites were obviously not involved in reading this parashah, but the midrash moves smoothly and naturally into the contemporary moment, and speaks to the audience in a new personal voice. Tannaitic midrash, on the other hand, has an awkward and not fully realized homiletical voice. There simply aren’t the tools developed yet for the proper expression of emotional responses or moral lessons to a contemporary audience. The halakhic frame, which lends its language for this purpose, is too logical and intellectual and firmly fixed in Scripture to be appropriate, and yet often it is this frame that is applied. Natalie Dohrmann writes about the ways in which narrative fails in the aggadic parts of tannaitic midrash (or more specifically, in Mekhilta deRabbi Ishmael), and suggests that these failures are due to the use of “a language derived from halakhic poetics/exegesis” which does not fully accommodate the needs of narrative aggadah.34 Dohrmann’s concern is with narrative, but her insights apply equally to other aspects of aggadic discourse such as homily or rhetoric, with their interest in addressing an audience.

34

Dohrmann, “Law and Narrative,” 260.

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The following four examples highlight the ways in which tannaitic midrash’s halakhic and exegetical thinking limits the development of a homiletical voice: 1) Miriam and Aaron spoke against Moses (Num. 12:1): How did Miriam know that Moses had withdrawn himself from procreating? Because she saw that Tsiporah was not adorning herself with feminine adornments . . . We may draw an inference a fortiori: If Miriam who did not intend to talk ill about her brother, but rather to praise him, and not take away from procreation, but to increase it . . . was punished in this way, then all the more so one who intends to speak ill of his fellow and not to praise him, and to take away from procreation and not to increase it . . . [will certainly be punished]! (Sifre Num 99).

This midrash makes use of an argument a fortiori, a qal vahomer, to draw a contemporary lesson from the biblical story of Miriam’s gossip, the lesson that those who speak ill of their fellows will surely be punished. The qal vahomer is a form of logical argumentation usually used in the legal sphere to derive one law from another based on an assessment of which is the more severe and which the less severe. The difference between this ordinary legal use of the argument and what I will call the “homiletical” one in our Sifre Num example above is that in the homiletical one the derivation points outward to a non-biblical scenario, presumably to a contemporary audience. The point seems to be to offer a homiletical admonishment or lesson to the audience based on the biblical story. This homiletical mode, however, feels slightly awkward and tacked-on. First, because these a fortiori arguments tend to come at the end of a passage whose main concern is the exegetical explication of the biblical text, they feel like homiletical asides, tacked on to the main point which is exegesis. Second, the language used to discuss these homiletical asides is the highly intellectual logic of the qal vahomer. Applying this type of logical reasoning to homily implies that the primary mode of operation is still the logical, intellectual one, so that even a homiletical lesson is not delivered in a touching, emotional style, but in the language of rational argumentation. These homiletical a fortiori arguments are not infrequent in tannaitic midrash; they seem to be one of the main mechanisms for moving from the biblical sphere to a moral lesson for a contemporary audience. In another example, in Sifra, there is a discussion about Moses’ careful study habits, followed by the following non-biblical outward admonition:

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2) We may draw an inference a fortiori: If someone who hears from the Holy One and speaks through the Holy Spirit, needs to consider carefully between one parashah and the next and one issue and the next, then all the more so a commoner [who hears] from a commoner (Sifra Vayikra 1.6–9).

Again, the movement is from the Bible outward, and the goal is to offer a moral lesson derived from the biblical sphere but applicable to the students listening or studying this text. Here, again, the homiletical comment remains firmly fixed in the intellectual sphere of rational, logical argumentation; the point is proven, not felt. What a contrast to the personal, emotional voice of the Holy One as He tries to persuade! He says to the soul: “I made you above all others, and you go out and sin, rob and do acts of violence?” (LR 4.4). And He says to the people of Israel: “My children, your fathers did not find wrong in Me, and you have found wrong in Me?” (14.5). The point in both cases is to persuade people to act better; it is a point of admonition as in the tannaitic examples, but the amoraic voice of the Holy One is personal and the persuasion is based on this personal connection and the emotions that are brought up as a result, feelings of guilt and shame. Amoraic midrash, freed from the language of halakhic exegesis, has the opportunity to develop a new homiletical voice with its own personal, emotional language more suited to its aims. The tannaitic examples show what homily looks like before it has become independent of halakhah. The movement between biblical and contemporary worlds is also smoother and more subtle in amoraic midrash; in the two Holy One statements just cited, it is almost impossible to tell whether God is speaking to a biblical or contemporary persona; the voice rings out and speaks easily to both. By contrast, the tannaitic examples are more obvious about the transition. If anything, the qal vahomer form serves to highlight the difference between the biblical scenario and the present as it is this sense of difference which fuels the ability to make a derivation; it is because our world is not like that of Miriam and Moses, because we are not as pure-spirited as Miriam nor as close to God as Moses that we may learn from them that even we must be careful. The derivation here depends on distance and emphasizes it, whereas in amoraic midrash the voice of the Holy One manages to elide the distance, creating a time which feels neither past nor present but eternal. It is not only in the use of the qal vahomer that we see tannaitic midrash’s struggle with a homiletical voice; it sometimes also appears in its use of

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the talmud lomar and the submissive hermeneutic that accompanies that term. Consider the following example from Sifra which comments on the biblical commandment not to walk in the ways [behuqotehem] of the foreign nations (Lev 18:1ff.). After a consideration of what specific actions entail walking in their ways, the midrash continues: 3) And lest one should say: They have laws [huqim], but we do not have laws [huqim], Scripture comes to teach you otherwise [talmud lomar]: My rules alone shall you observe, and faithfully follow My laws: I the Lord am your God (Lev 18:4). There is still hope for the evil inclination to ponder and say: But theirs are better than ours! Scripture comes to teach you otherwise [talmud lomar]: Observe them faithfully, for that will be proof of your wisdom and discernment (Deut 4:6) (Sifra Aharei Mot 13.9).

As other scholars have already noted, this midrash shows evidence of a degree of anxiety concerning the stature of Jewish law when compared to other systems of law, presumably especially when compared to the highly acclaimed contemporary Roman legal system.35 The first statement of anxiety is a vague one: “They have laws, but we do not,” and is quickly answered with a Scriptural verse. The second one makes it clear what is behind this concern: “But theirs are better than ours!” These are emotional concerns—they betray feelings of low self-esteem in the Jewish world— but the midrash does not speak on an emotional level. Instead, it remains fixed in its hermeneutics of submission, arguing that Scripture always has an answer; all that needs to be done is to cite a verse and thereby shut the door on these sentiments. There is a disjunction between the nature of the complaint and its response. Someone clearly feels that the Gentiles have a better legal system, and Sifra’s answer is a talmud lomar, a logical proof from Scripture that you should not be thinking and feeling this way. Sifra goes on in this mode, attempting to similarly silence other rebellious emotions. The evil inclination is next credited with worrying about various non-rational laws such as the prohibition against eating pig and wearing mixed cloths. The response is another talmud lomar: “I am the Lord who legislated them; you are not allowed to argue against them.” This midrash articulates clearly the religious assumptions which lie behind a hermeneutic of submission like that of tannaitic midrash, a religion of submission. Scripture closes doors, teaches constraint and

35 Natalie Dohrmann, “History, Hairdos, and Halakhah” (paper presented at the Conference on Halakhah and Aggadah, Harvard Law School, May 22, 2005).

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submission, in religious thinking as well as in exegesis. This type of use of Scripture works well in an entirely legal mode, but when it comes to answering emotionally charged theological questions as in the above midrash, it seems less than adequate. A final example of the ways in which tannaitic midrash’s halakhic and exegetical thinking limit its homiletical capacities is its tendency to try to resolve issues in a definite yes or no fashion. Again, this tendency works well for halakhic issues, but not as well for the subtler theological and homiletical issues involved in aggadah. To be sure, as Dohrmann shows, the aggadic sections are less inclined to this sense of definition and resoluteness; at the same time, however, the halakhic tendencies still show their influence, as in the following passage: 4) In the [eschatological] future the congregation of Israel will stand in judgment before God, saying to Him: “Master of the Universe, I do not know who went bad with respect to whom, and who was unfaithful with respect to whom.” Did Israel go bad with respect to God or was God unfaithful with respect to Israel? But when Scripture says, “The heavens declare His righteousness (Ps 3:6), it is obvious that Israel went bad before God and God was not unfaithful with respect to Israel, as it is said, For I the Lord change not (Mal 3:6) (Sifre Deut 306).36

The question which Israel is said to put before God in the future is a complicated one that involves issues of divine responsibility and human sin and punishment. In this midrash, however, the question becomes a yes or no question. There are two options; either God is entirely responsible or Israel is entirely responsible and there must be a definite answer. The answer makes a clear choice for Israel’s responsibility, using Scripture as its proof. The whole complicated theological matter is thus reduced and simplified through the use of simple yes or no halakhic thinking. To be sure, as Fraade has shown, this midrash stands as part of a larger group of midrashim which do indeed complicate the matter and deal with various sides of the question of divine/human responsibility for tragedy.37 This single midrash shows us, nonetheless, that the resoluteness of halakhic thinking still bears its marking on some aggadic texts. We should be careful not to overstate the halakhic influence on aggadic thinking in tannaitic midrash. After all, aggadic portions of tannaitic midrash are actually engaged in a new activity and develop a certain 36 37

This is Fraade’s translation. Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary, 133–134. Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary, 128–149.

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kind of a voice which is unlike that of halakhic midrash. The primary formal evidence for such a voice is the existence of the mashal in tannaitic midrash, a form which is not generally found in halakhic discussions. The mashal has already been discussed in great detail in previous chapters of this book as part of PRK’s special language. It should be noted here that in this area, PRK is continuous with its forebears, making use of this tannaitic aggadic development. The nature of the development is, as has already been seen, the invention of an openly fictional non-biblical narrative with great entertainment value as well as great personal and emotional appeal. Are there differences between the use of the mashal in amoraic homiletical midrash and in tannaitic midrash? There certainly is a higher frequency of meshalim in amoraic midrash—amoraic midrash has more than four times as many meshalim. It should be noted, however, that amoraic midrash is made up entirely of aggadah, so that one would expect a greater number. As mentioned earlier in the book, Stern and Boyarin disagree on the nature of the mashal, and they disagree using texts from different periods, Stern’s being from amoraic midrash, and Boyarin’s from tannaitic.38 The substance of their disagreement involves a different understanding of how “purely textual” the mashal is. Stern argues that the mashal is more rhetorically oriented and less bound by Scripture than Boyarin argues. This disagreement may be purely a matter of a different scholarly orientation or it may indicate a difference in the use of the mashal in texts from different periods. Aside from the mashal, there is other evidence that amoraic midrash employs a personal voice more frequently and in a more developed way than tannaitic midrash. For one thing, amoraic midrash cites the biblical book the Song of Songs far more frequently than tannaitic midrash, citing it a total of 166 times compared to tannaitic midrash’s 18 times (adjusted).39 The frequency of citation of this book of love poems traditionally understood to refer to the love relationship between God and Israel indicates a great interest in addressing such intimate, personal and emotional issues.

38

See chapter 1. “Adjusted” refers to the numerical adjustment made to account for the larger amount of tannaitic material in the survey. See the table of comparative terms for details. 39

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As noted earlier, amoraic midrash also makes use of the term amar hakadosh barukh hu far more frequently than tannaitic midrash, 343 times compared to 36 times (adjusted). The parallel tannaitic term amar hamaqom only appears 6 times (adjusted). Speech is simply not as frequently done by God in tannaitic midrash; there it is Scripture who speaks, and when Scripture speaks, it is not in a very personal voice, as we have seen. Amar hakadosh barukh hu, on the hand, as we saw in chapter 3, generally introduces a loving, intimate address. There are certain terms of personal address used often in this speech of God as well as in the parallel speech of a human to God. Those are, on God’s part, banay, “My children,” and on the human’s part, ribon ha’olam, “Master of the Universe.” Note that God’s term uses the possessive, indicating an emphasis on the close relationship God feels to His people. Both of these terms appear far more frequently in amoraic midrash than in tannaitic, again indicating an increase in personal speech in the later midrashim. To be sure, tannaitic midrash does occasionally employ a personal voice something like that found in amoraic midrash; it is just not as frequently used or as well developed. Consider, for example, the following instance of a personal dialogue between God and Israel in Mekhilta. The passage is from Shirta, Mekhilta’s parashah dealing with the Song at the Red Sea: The Lord is my song (Ex 15:2): You are a song for all the inhabitants of the world, but especially for me. He has made an affirmation [amirah] with regard to me, and I have made an affirmation with regard to Him. He has made an affirmation with regard to me, as it says, And the Lord has affirmed you [he’emirkha] this day (Deut 26:18); and I have made an affirmation with regard to Him, as it says, You have affirmed [he’emarta] this day that the Lord is your God (Deut 26:17). But behold all the nations of the world proclaim the praise of He who spoke and the world came to be, but mine are more pleasing to Him, as it says, But sweet are the songs of Israel (2 Sam 23.1). Israel says: Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord alone [ehad] (Deut 6:4). And the Holy Spirit shouts from the heavens and says, And who is like your people Israel, a unique [ehad] nation on earth (1 Chr 17:21). Israel says: Who is like You [mi kamokha], O Lord, among the celestials (Ex 15:11). And the Holy Spirit shouts from the heavens and says, O happy Israel, who is like you [mi kamokha]? (Deut 33:29). (Mekh Shirta 3).

The passage continues with further instances of Israel’s praise of God followed by God’s response, but we have seen enough to establish the pattern. The passage begins by setting up a feeling of connection and reciprocality through the use of the same term amirah for both God’s proclamation with regard to Israel and Israel’s proclamation with regard to God. This

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discussion is followed by a comment about Israel’s superiority over the nations with regard to singing God’s praises. And then comes the dialoguelike list of Israel’s praises and God’s praises. The midrash has Israel begin by citing a verse which praises God; this is followed by God’s citation of a verse which praises Israel, using one of the same key terms, ehad or mi kamokha or other similar terms in the lines which follow. This passage indeed portrays a personal dialogue between God and Israel, and the two are made to seem deeply connected, as God responds in the same language that Israel has used. However, there are a few striking contrasts between this personal dialogue and the type we encountered in amoraic midrash in chapter 3. First, both Israel and God speak exclusively through the citation of verses, and never in their own personal idiom, as in amoraic midrash. This difference supports our sense of tannaitic midrash as more Scripture-focused. Second, God is said to shout these verses “from the heavens.” This sense of a lofty God up above is intensified by the subject matter of the discussion, the greatness of God and Israel; each one tries to outdo the other in praise. These are beautiful encounters, but they lack the feeling of everyday ordinary intimacy that one feels in amoraic midrash’s dialogues about such subjects as Moses’ anxiety over the death of the tabernacle cows (PRK 1.8). The loftiness of the encounter in Mekhilta fits the biblical passage, the Song at the Sea, as the Red Sea is considered to be a moment of intense, awesome revelation. It seems significant that Mekhilta chooses such a lofty passage for a dialogue, whereas amoraic midrash has dialogues at every turn. Conclusion To sum up, we see a movement from a more intellectual and exegetical style to a more emotional and homiletical style. Signs of this personal emotional style are emerging in aggadic parts of tannaitic midrash, but it is not until amoraic midrash that we see the full flowering of an aggadic, homiletical voice which is independent enough of Scripture to speak to a contemporary moment, and free enough of the intellectual and exegetical trappings of halakhic midrash to speak in a personal voice. This difference is also evident in the different images which each uses to portray itself and its goals. As we saw earlier in this book, PRK 12.3 rejects the image of the studious pedagogue who insists on the importance of study at all costs and instead projects an image of loving, indulgent care-taking. This midrash may be understood as an endorsement of agga-

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dic midrash with its special new personal voice in the stead of tannaitic midrash’s more intellectual approach. In his study of Sifre Deut, Fraade finds images which suggest that tannaitic rabbis imagine themselves quite differently, in exactly the scholastic image which is being rejected by amoraic midrash. He points to examples in which the rabbis project onto the biblical description of the role of priests their own rabbinic role, which they define in an extremely intellectual way, as involving careful study and intellectual debate.40 These images of self-portrayal are thus consistent with the differences in stylistic orientation we have seen above. What are the implications of these stylistic differences for our understanding of their respective Sitz im Leben, audiences and goals? Fraade suggests that the tannaitic Sifre Deut at least was intended “first and foremost” to address and engage the rabbinic sages and their disciples.41 The findings of this chapter confirm this hypothesis, as we saw evidence of a school atmosphere in such forms as the intellectual debates and the large array of technical exegetical terms. Amoraic midrash, on the other hand, emerges as the more accessible of the two, and also the more obviously appealing with its vivid personal and emotional rhetorical style. While not ruling out the use of this midrash in scholarly circles, I would argue that it is certainly capable of addressing a broader audience as well, and seems to be designed to do so. Tannaitic midrash emerges in this stylistic study not just as more intellectual and exegetical, but also as more constrained by the biblical text, adopting a posture of submission to Scripture. How do such exegetical attitudes translate theologically? Yadin has suggested that there is some connection between this hermeneutic of submission and a theology of divine distance and transcendence. In the following chapter we will see further evidence of such connections, a theology of awe and authority to match the sense of submission to Scriptural authority present in the exegetical sphere. The contrast to amoraic midrash’s freer exegetical style and more down-to-earth God will also be striking.

40 41

Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary, 69–121, especially pp. 87 and 106. Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary, 81.

CHAPTER SIX

FROM HONOR TO INTIMACY: THEMATIC COMPARISONS Chapter Four showed that PRK’s theology was distinctly down-to-earth, its God, immanent and intimate, humble and indulgent. This chapter will support chapter 4’s claim to the novelty of this theology in the amoraic period by contrasting it to the more distant and awesome God of tannaitic midrashim. The method will be the same as in the previous chapter, making use of quantitative evidence based on searches using the Bar Ilan Responsa CD-Rom as well as the anecdotal evidence of certain specific textual comparisons and the views of other scholars. On the whole, however, I rely more heavily on anecdotal and scholarly evidence in this chapter; quantitative searches are less useful for thematic issues since they usually tell us little about the use of the term and therefore little about a midrash’s approach to an issue. The tannaitic midrashim are generally more resistant to thematic analysis than amoraic midrashim, because of their verse-centeredness. Th e content of tannaitic midrashim tends to be much more closely related to the content of the Scriptural verse they are commenting upon, so that to speak of their content is sometimes merely to speak of the content of Scripture. Neusner writes about Sifra and Sifre to Numbers in this way, saying that they are so verse-focused that it is hard to define any particular topical program other than an interest in the hermeneutical question of whether reason or Scripture triumphs.1 Boyarin has similarly argued that Mekhilta should not be viewed as importing extra-textual issues but rather as reflecting the natural manifestation of a serious rendering of Scripture’s own intertextuality.2 Amoraic midrash, on the other hand, generally has a stronger thematic program, as is manifest in its ability to remain aggadic even while interpreting halakhic parts of Scripture. Tannaitic midrash’s weaker thematic program is not a problem for our analyses. First, it is not a problem because, although it may be weaker, all commentaries have some of their own thematic emphases, even if it 1 Neusner, Sifra in Perspective, 136ff. Note that Neusner sees Sifre Deut as more amenable to thematic analysis and less strictly verse-centered. 2 Boyarin, Intertextuality, throughout.

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is only manifest in their choice of verses to make larger or smaller comments upon. Second, even if and when tannaitic midrash is found to be reflecting Scriptural ideas rather than its own, if those ideas are in contrast to those of amoraic midrash on the same topic, then the sense of amoraic midrash’s novelty is still established; in fact, if anything, it is more clearly established in this way, as one gets a sense of a continuity of ideas from the Scriptural to the tannaitic periods, a continuity which is then specifically broken by the new ideas of amoraic midrash. The chapter will be divided into two sections, the first dealing with questions of immanence and transcendence, and the second, with questions of rebuke, authority and indulgence. Immanence and Transcendence As mentioned in chapter four, scholars such as Marmorstein and Neusner have shown that anthropomorphism, or, according to Neusner, the move toward God’s personhood and incarnation, are ideas that become stronger and more popular in the amoraic period. Marmorstein traces this amoraic development back to the views of R. Akiva’s school in the tannaitic period. Indeed, Heschel, whose book Theology of Ancient Judaism traces the lines of debate between the Ishmaelan and Akiban schools in the tannaitic period, argues that R. Akiva has a more immanent and anthropomorphic view of God, imagining Him as accessible to humanity and as acting in certain human-like ways. R. Ishmael, on the other hand, according to Heschel as well as Yadin, maintains a more distant, transcendent and wholly other view of God.3 The historical argument for the ascendancy of the immanent, anthropomorphic view of God in the amoraic period generally assumes that it emerges as a continuation of the Akiban school of thought, and in opposition to the Ishmaelan school. In what follows, I will both support and question this line of thinking. On the one hand, we will indeed see evidence for certain lines of continuity between Akiban thinking and the thinking of amoraic midrash with respect to God’s image. On the other hand, there are also important ways in which amoraic midrash is discontinuous with Akiban thinking, and Akiban thinking bears a closer

3

Abraham Joshua Heschel, Theology of Ancient Judaism (London: The Soncino Press, 1962). Yadin, Scripture as Logos, 138–141.

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resemblance to its contemporary tannaitic thinkers, at least as we see their thinking manifest in these midrashim. Because of the existence of such discontinuities as well as the existence of significant methodological problems with the arguments for historical continuity, this chapter will proceed with a general tannaitic/amoraic comparison.4 The Akiban complication will only be brought to bear where it appears to be relevant and pressing, and again at the end of this section for a fuller consideration. In relation to the revelation at Mount Sinai, the tannaitic and amoraic midrashim show a sharp distinction. Consider the following description of God’s presence at Mount Sinai from Mekhilta: The Lord came down upon Mount Sinai (Ex 19:20): R. Yosi says: Behold it says: The heavens belong to the Lord, but the earth He gave over to man (Ps 115:16). Moses and Elijah did not go up to heaven, nor did the Glory come down to earth. Rather, it teaches that God said to Moses: I will call you from the top of the mountain and you will come up, as it says, And the Lord called Moses to the top of the mountain (Ex 19:20) (Mekh Bahodesh 4).

This statement puts a great deal of distance between Moses and God at Sinai, arguing that the heavens and the earth remained separate spheres even during this revelation; there was no going up on the part of a human, and no coming down on the part of God. PRK’s midrash (cited already in chapter 4) is so perfect a contrast that is seems possible it was created as a knowing rejection of this earlier tradition: R. Abba b. Yudan said: It is like a [Roman] king who was going to give away his daughter in marriage [to a Syrian man]. Now this king had [previously] issued a royal prohibition saying that Romans should not go down to Syria [to get wives] and Syrians should not go up to Rome [to get wives]. But once he himself gave his daughter in marriage [to a Syrian man], he

4 In addition to such discontinuities between Akiban and amoraic thinking, there are other reasons for being cautious of this line of thinking. First, aside from Heschel, scholars who consider there to be clear differences in the halakhic area between Akiban and Ishmaelan midrashim, generally find it harder to make such clear distinctions in aggadic material. See Strack and Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash, 249. Second, attribution is famously problematic in rabbinic literature so that one can never be entirely sure that a certain statement represents the views of its named tradent. Third, the midrashic collections which are generally attributed to one school or the other (Sifra and Sifre D to R. Akiva, and Mekhilta and Sifre N to R. Ishmael) are full of citations from scholars of the “opposing” school, so that it becomes difficult to get a clear sense of each school’s separate views. Furthermore, at least some of Heschel’s conclusions regarding the differences between the two scholars are based on attributions to their names from later sources; such midrashim may say more about the views of the later period than they do about those of the scholar being cited.

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withdrew the prohibition. So, too, before the Torah was given, The heavens belong to the Lord, but the earth He gave over to man (Ps. 115:16), but once He gave the Torah from heaven, And Moses went up to God (Ex 19:3), and the Lord came down upon Mount Sinai (Ex. 19:20) (PRK 12.11).5

The mashal’s details are a bit complicated to unravel, but the rhetorical point is clear. A king first issued a prohibition against travel, apparently for the purpose of marriage, between Syria and Rome; there was no going up and no going down between the two places. Later, based on the personal experience of his daughter’s marriage, he repealed the prohibitions and allowed such contact. The nimshal explains the revelation at Sinai to be a similarly profound moment of change for God. Previously the relationship between God and humanity, heaven and earth, had been as Mekhilta describes it; the heavens belong to God and the earth to man, and the two never meet. However, once God gave the Torah, He changed the rules and allowed such contact; He Himself came down and Moses went up. This midrash seems to speak to the previous midrash, citing the same Psalms verse and incorporating the traditional notions of heaven-earth separation into a new story about change; the Psalms’ way of separation was the old way, but God has changed and now offers this new, more intimate way of living. The midrash attributes the change to God and to the period of Sinai, but it is the midrash itself that is new and R. Abba b. Yudan the one who is initiating the change in perception of God. As we have seen often in this book, not only does this midrash display the new concept of immanence and intimacy in revelation, but it shows some self-consciousness about the novelty of this idea. Heschel would argue that the Mekhilta passage represents only the view of R. Ishmael, but not that of the also tannaitic Akiva. He asserts that R. Akiva believed that Moses did in fact go up to heaven. It may be the case that R. Akiva believed this, and it may be that PRK is continuing in the Akiban line of opposition to R. Ishmael’s extreme notions of divine transcendence. However, Heschel does not convincingly demonstrate that Akiva had such views. His clearest citation to the effect that Moses went up to heaven is from the late amoraic Tanhuma.6 The only tannaitic example he cites is from Sifre Deut, where, in order to explain the difference between Moses’ terminology and Isaiah’s with respect to heaven and earth, the midrash comments, “Because Moses was close to heaven,

5 6

See chapter 4 for a detailed explanation of this mashal. Heschel, Theology, 33.

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therefore he said, Give ear, O heavens, and because he was far from earth, he said, Let the earth hear the words I utter (Deut 32:1) (Sifre Deut 333).” Heschel uses this midrash, together with one from Tanhuma, to show that Moses went up to heaven to receive the Torah, but the Sifre passage merely says that he was “close to heaven;” even the Mekhilta passage above places Moses at the top of Mount Sinai, “close to heaven.” This view is not nearly as striking as the PRK assertion of Sinaitic intimacy, of the breaking of barriers to allow Moses to go up and God to come down. Furthermore, we have another midrash from Sifre Deut which suggests the same sense of distance between heaven and earth as does the Mekhilta passage: “To attach oneself to Him (Deut 11:22): How is it possible for a person to go up to heaven and attach himself to fire? After all, it is already said: For the Lord your God is a consuming fire (Deut 4:24)” (Sifre Deut 114). This passage makes the point that contact between a human being and God is physically impossible because of the fire associated with God. The existence of such a view in the Akiban Sifre Deut suggests, at the very least, that such clear distinctions between Akiban divine immanence and Ishmaelan transcendence cannot be easily maintained for the tannaitic collections. On the other side, the amoraic side, we have seen numerous examples of a sense of closeness between heaven and earth in chapter 4. Here, though, consider one further example of this particular issue of the human ability to ascend to heaven. PRK 1.4 cites the Proverbs verse, “Who has ascended heaven and come down” (30:4), as its petihta verse. In its biblical context the phrase is a rhetorical question meaning that no one can do such a thing, but in PRK the “who” is filled; it is filled first by God who is said to go up and come down to earth, and then by the prayer of one who faithfully tithes his produce, and then, first, by Elijah who is said to go up to heaven, and then by Moses who is said to do the same. This petihta is remarkable for its unremarkableness. That is, whereas in the previous PRK passage the notion of going up to heaven was marked as unusual and new, here it is considered ordinary and unremarkable; Moses and Elijah are part of a list of such goers up and down, a list which includes the everyday ordinary prayer of one engaged in tithing. Moses’ and Elijah’s trips to heaven and back are not considered matters of controversy or esoterica, but ordinary facts to be referred to easily and openly. We will encounter this sense of ordinariness and de-mystification frequently in our amoraic passages below.

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The feeling of divine familiarity and intimacy in PRK is partly a function of the absence of a sense of awe in PRK’s depiction of revelation. Tannaitic midrash is full of awe, as is the biblical description. In addition to simple explanatory comments on the biblical verses dealing with the awesome thunder and lightning of Scripture’s description, Mekhilta has the following traditions and embellishments: the people were so frightened that they ran twelve miles backward and then twelve miles forward again at each commandment; they huddled together for fear of the earthquake, thunder and lightning; God’s voice was unlike that of a human in its ability to keep getting stronger instead of weaker as time went by; the smoke was much stronger than that of an ordinary fire; God spoke all the commandments at once, an impossibility for a human being; the trembling of the mountains and the earth brought out the nations of the world in great fear and alarm.7 Sifre Deut, considered an Akiban midrash, also has an awesome description of the revelation at Mount Sinai, although here the awe is attenuated. Sifre Deut deals with Mount Sinai in its commentary on Deut 33:2–4, “The Lord came from Sinai . . .,” verses from Moses’ poetic blessing of the Israelites which are rabbinically understood to refer to the events of Mount Sinai. The last few verses deal with love—“Lover, indeed, of the people”—and therefore elicit in the midrash talk of God’s love and protection; the image of the Israelites’ running away 12 miles and coming back 12 miles with each commandment which we saw in Mekhilta is here transformed from a description of fright to a description of protection; the midrash asserts that in spite of all this running “they were not startled either by the voice of the thunderings or by the voice of the lightnings.”8 This midrash and a number of others dealing with God’s love notwithstanding, other midrashim in Sifre Deut create a sense of Sinai as an awesome, extraordinary event; many languages are employed, not just one, and God appears from all four directions at once; the whole world and its inhabitants shake so much at the giving of the Torah that the nations of the world are also frightened; God is more awesome than a human in His capacity to only reveal a small portion of His treasures

7

These midrashim are all from Mekh Bahodesh. Sifre Deut 313. Translation is from Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary, 61. See also his general comments on the pages following. 8

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and in His clear distinguishability among His entourage; He is beautiful and exalted; His voice travels from one end of the world to the other; and His Torah is like fire. All of these traditions imply a God who reveals Himself in an awesome, exalted way. Here, again, many of the themes emerge directly from the verses, from their mention of different place names and of the “lightning flashing.” PRK’s Mount Sinai revelation is indeed quite different; there is little sense of awe or distance, but instead a kind of down-to-earth description of a friendly personal encounter. There is no mention of the thunder or lightning or of the shaking of the earth, all Scriptural descriptions, nor of the rabbinic tradition of the fright of the nations of the world or of the people’s 12-mile flight, traditions that appear in both Mekhilta and Sifre Deut. Instead, we have the image of a father taking care of his sick son before sending him back to school (12.3) and of a lover courting his would-be-wife with treats (12.11). The contrast in use of similes is striking. In both Mekhilta and Sifre Deut, the Torah is compared to fire. The Mekhilta version explicitly plays out a message about the danger of getting too close, while Sifre Deut, as Fraade has pointed out, takes a more ambiguous position, asserting that fire is dangerous but not articulating explicitly the message of danger with regard to Torah.9 PRK is even further removed from any sense of danger or distance with regard to the Torah. Fire is mentioned in PRK 12.3, as part of an interpretation of the Song of Songs word, Ashishot, literally “raisin-cakes,” but only in passing, and not as a comparison to the Torah. Torah is instead compared to apples on two separate occasions, playing out the idea of Torah as sweet-smelling and nourishing and of the Israelites’ greatness in acting like apple trees in certain positive respects (12.3 and 12.10). Torah is also compared to weapons of protection (12.5 and 12.8), as well as to spiked wine (12.5). Even more telling is a comparison of the use of personal metaphors. Mekhilta includes one comparison to a husband going out formally at Sinai to greet his wife and two other comparisons to a king gaining authority over his subjects. Sifre Deut has one comparison to a fatherson relationship and one to a betrothed woman. PRK has a total of 8 personal meshalim, about half to a wife-husband relationship and half to a father-son relationship. The themes of love and intimacy are paramount

9

Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary, 46–49.

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in PRK in a way they had not been in earlier midrashim, where the biblical notions of awe and distance prevailed. We have seen some distinction between Mekhilta and Sifre Deut with regard to these issues, and one way of understanding the progression is to think of PRK as continuing, developing and emphasizing a certain personal, loving way of thinking begun in the Akiban midrash of Sifre Deut. Another striking contrast in notions of divine revelation can be seen in the differing depictions of the dedication of the tabernacle in various midrashic comments on the Numbers verse, “On the day that Moses finished setting up the Tabernacle” (7:1). In its first parashah, PRK uses this verse as an opportunity to speak about an increase in intimacy over time. 1.1 conveys this sense through the mashal about the man who wanted to bring back his wife and offered her the “new thing” of an increase in intimacy, a reference to the greater intimacy implied by God’s residence in the tabernacle on earth as opposed to up above in the heavens. 1.2 also conveys this sense of an increase in intimacy or at least in privacy, comparing the establishment of the tabernacle to a father’s need to communicate with his daughter in a private chamber as she matures. 1.3 does not speak about an increase in intimacy over time per se, but does speak about intimacy and love, about God’s abundant love for Israel as expressed in His use of many personal metaphors for her, such as daughter, sister and mother. Sifre to Numbers’ comments on this same verse about the completion of the tabernacle provide a revealing contrast. After an initial discussion of exactly how the seven preceding days of preparation and construction worked, the midrash continues with a discussion of a series of events which all happened, bo bayom, “On that very day.” The first event fits with PRK’s understanding of the mood, “On that very day the divine presence resided in the temple.” Even with respect to this moment of intimacy, however, there is a tinge of distance in the Sifre, as the verse cited to prove this point is: “Moses could not enter the tent of Meeting, because the cloud had settled upon it and the Presence of the Lord filled the Tabernacle” (Ex 40:34). Note that in the text of Sifre as we have it, only the first part of the verse is cited; clearly the end of the verse is intended as proof, but it seems odd in that case that the previous verse was not cited with its clear reference to the same point: “The cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the Presence of the Lord filled the Tabernacle.” Sifre’s use of the verse concerning Moses’ inability to enter the tabernacle as a result of the presence of God seems purposely designed to show that distance inevitably accompanies divine revelation. This point is further

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supported by what follows in Sifre, which is a list of other events that happened on the same day: the bringing of the chieftains’ sacrifices, the consumption of sacrifices by divine fire, and the bringing of Aaron’s sons’ “strange fire,” which ultimately led to their death. The mention of their death then leads the midrash to a discussion of exactly how their bodies were removed from the sanctuary. This discussion creates a strong link between divine revelation and the dangers of intimacy. Moses knew to stay away, but Aaron’s sons’ did not and were consumed. This link between divine presence and danger and the consequent precautions of distance is a biblical one, and it is interesting to see it replayed and emphasized here in Sifre, but ignored in PRK, where the divine presence is depicted in much softer tones, as a personal love which increases over time, and with no hint of a sense of danger. One final example of the difference in the image of God in tannaitic and amoraic midrash can be seen in their attitudes toward the notion of God’s consumption of sacrifices. Both comment on the phrase, “The offerings of food due to Me, as offerings by fire of pleasing odor to Me” (Num 28:2), by pointing out that only smell is implied in this verse, and that one should be careful to understand that God does not eat or drink. In spite of their similar ostensible rejection of any anthropomorphic behavior on God’s part, there are actually subtle differences in the way they deal with this issue. Sifre Num is stricter about its anti-anthropomorphic stance: This is to teach you that there is no eating or drinking before Him, but rather He spoke and His will is carried out. So, too, it says: Were I hungry, I would not tell you, for Mine is the world and all it holds (Ps 50:12); I know every bird of the mountains, the creatures of the field are subject to Me (Ps 50:11). Do I learn from this that there is eating and drinking before Him? Therefore Scripture teaches, Do I eat the flesh of bulls, or drink the blood of he-goats? (Ps 50:13) (Sifre Num 191).

Sifre Num uses verses 11 and 12 of Ps 50 to consider the possibility that God does in fact eat and drink; these verses imply that God does not want people to feed Him simply because He has His own sources of food; if I were hungry, I would not turn to you, since all the animals are mine. After considering this possibility through the reading of these verses, Sifre goes on to show that such a possibility is impossible because Scripture said otherwise in the verse that follows, verse 13, “Do I eat the flesh of bulls?”

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PRK uses the same Psalms verses, but interestingly enough, does not cite the final verse to disprove the possibility that God eats. The first petihta in chapter 6, the chapter dealing with Numbers 28:2, begins with Psalm 50, verse 12, “Were I hungry, I would not tell you, for mine is the world and all it holds.” The interpretation that follows spells out the notion that it is simply not a good idea for God to rely on humans for food. First, God would not rely on humans because He is merciful and they, cruel; “Would a merciful one ever put a cruel one in charge of His food?” The subtle and shocking implication, left without refutation, is that God does require food; He just doesn’t look to humans for it. The second half of the same midrash’s interpretation of this verse has a similar implication, as it points out that God only had us offer sacrifices from those animals under our control. Here the implication is that, again, we, as humans, only have some animals under our control so that we would be unfit agents to deal with his hunger; “Were I hungry I would not tell you.” The long discussion which follows makes a similar implication as it traces the many animals and people and kings that God has given to human beings whom they are not able to keep fed; how, then, could they imagine they would be able to feed God? In addition to this change in the use of Psalm 50 and the notable absence of verse 13 from the discussion, there are other hints in PRK chapter 6 that PRK’s perspective is less than fully anti-anthropomorphic. PRK works hard to make the point that God’s eating and drinking are different from that of humans, but in the process, the implication is that God does indeed eat and drink, just differently. Thus, for instance, a contrast is drawn between the human need to drink at least a few log of water from a river, whereas, God says, “But the Torah wrote concerning one log of wine, that I drink, I am filled, I am satisfied.” The midrash seems to be making the point that God does not drink in the way that humans do, but the language used serves the opposite purpose, as it creates a vivid picture of God drinking and filling Himself. Similarly, in a later midrash in this chapter, two meshalim are drawn to show that God prefers the sacrifices of the Israelites to those of Noah. The first mashal tells of a king who had two cooks who each cooked him a dish; he showed his preference for the second cook’s food by asking for that cook to make more of the same in the future. So, too, God asked Israel to continue to offer its sacrifices on a regular basis in the future. The second mashal speaks of a king who was also brought two different

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dishes to eat; he showed his preference for the second one by licking the bowl clean. The vividness and physicality of these images of God eating is remarkable. The second image of the licking of the bowl, an image that is carried into the nimshal about God’s consumption of sacrifices through a play on words, is especially vivid and striking in its anthropomorphism. Stern has written about the ways in which the mashal in particular tends to imagine God in human terms and considers it more of a literary stance than a philosophical one.10 Here, however, the use of these meshalim in the context of a discussion of whether God does in fact eat sacrifices or not seems suspiciously dangerous. PRK takes an official stance against the anthropomorphic image of God’s eating of sacrifices, but in actuality, creates images and ideas that imply such a human-like perception of God’s relationship to sacrifices. These depictions of God as involved in the human activity of eating may be related to PRK’s tendency to use vivid imagery. They may also be related to a trend in popular culture to believe in a more anthropomorphic God and the amoraic interest in appealing to a broader populace. They may also be a continuation of an Akiban hermeneutical tendency to take anthropomorphic images seriously, in this case taking the notion of sacrifices as God’s food seriously. Whether any or all of these suggestions is true, one thing that is clear is that depicting God in this human-like way fits well with the other amoraic images of God we have seen. The God of amoraic midrash is a not-awesome and not-distant God whose love and intimacy are not considered a danger but a personal blessing to be treasured and increased. It would make sense that such a God, who has no airs and not much distance from earth, would act in human-like ways, including eating and drinking. By the same token, the message of the tannaitic midrashim is also consistent; they are concerned above all with preserving a sense of God’s awe and separateness, so that anything related to His physical being must be shunned and denounced. Before moving on to a consideration of the differences between amoraic and tannaitic midrash in relation to the issues of rebuke and indulgence, I want to return to the question of R. Akiva and his influence on PRK. According to Heschel, R. Akiva is known for his assertions of an immanent and anthropomorphic God, a God who is accessible to humans. PRK’s theology is certainly continuous with these notions. Also, R. Akiva was known to have endorsed the biblical book the Song of Songs as “the holy 10

Stern, Midrash and Theory, 73–93.

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of holies.” In the previous chapter, we noted that amoraic midrash cites the Song of Songs far more frequently than tannaitic midrash. The contrast to tannaitic midrash is even more significant for PRK alone; out of the 160 amoraic citations of this biblical book, 131 are from PRK. In spite of these continuities, there are certain important points of divergence. PRK offers a theology in which access to God is of an ordinary, everyday variety, open to all who come. R. Akiva is a known esoteric who is even considered to have taken the journey to the mystical garden of pardes to “peek” at God.11 Many of his midrashic traditions, as we will see, imply that he saw access to the divine as being of an extremely limited and extraordinary nature. If PRK was indeed involved in continuing R. Akiva’s traditions, then it did so in a new open way, a way that popularized and broadened his most esoteric teachings. One sign of this change can be seen in PRK’s use of a phrase that is a hallmark of Akiban midrash, the phrase, ilmale mikra katuv i efshar le’omro “If there had not been an explicit written verse, it would have been impossible to say it.” This phrase introduces a dangerous or esoteric teaching with regard to God, such as the notion that God Himself was involved in Moses’ burial or that He redeemed Himself as well as the people or that He acted toward the Israelites in Egypt like an animal nursing its young.12 The phrase thus tends to introduce a notion about God that is quite physical and therefore normally not allowed. PRK uses a phrase similar to this one, but slightly different; it, too, refers to an esoteric physical teaching about God, in this case a teaching about the emanation of light from God’s being: Ilule shederashah R. Yitshaq berabim, lo hayah efshar le’omrah, “If R. Isaac had not preached this matter in public, it would not be possible to say it” (21.5). Here, too, there is a sense of saying the impermissible about God, of divulging a piece of esoterica, but in this case what allows the esoterica to be transmitted is that R. Isaac, a prolific amoraic aggadist in Palestine who is cited often in PRK, has already been preaching this idea publicly.13 Something has shifted here. There is a movement away from the exegetical basis for the

11 See T Hagigah 2:3–4. For a portrait of R. Akiva with an emphasis on his special attitude toward love, see Judah Goldin, “Toward a Profile of the Tanna, Aqiba ben Joseph,” in Studies in Midrash and Related Literature (ed. Barry L. Eichler and Jeffrey H. Tigay; Philadelphia: JPS, 1988). For a discussion integrating R. Akiva’s reading strategies and the traditions about his martyrdom, see Boyarin, Intertextuality, 117–129. 12 In the order listed, Mekh Pisha 14; Mekhilta deRabbi Shimon bar Yohai 12 and 13; and Sifre Num 84 and 106. 13 R. Isaac is cited 46 times in PRK.

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esoterica and a shift toward its public proclamation. No longer is the issue one of exegetical debate; it has now become the subject of public preaching. In PRK, sacred, awesome and esoteric subjects become less weighted, more accessible and ordinary. We have seen this trend above in relation to divine revelation; the awesome encounter which in the tannaitic midrashim could elicit the people’s flight of 12 miles is in PRK depicted as a personal encounter like that between a lover courting his beloved or a father taking care of his sick son. PRK’s portrayal of conversations between God and humans as an ordinary, frequent occurrence in which God speaks intimately and unassumingly adds to this sense of the ordinariness and mundaneness of divine-human encounters. When Moses is frightened about the difficulty of building a sanctuary that will contain God, God downplays the magnitude of the job and speaks in a friendly, down-to-earth way: “Moses, it is not as you think, but rather, 20 boards to the north and 20 boards to the south . . . (2.10).” The imprecision of the measurements together with the mention of Moses’ name at the beginning of the statement, and the conversational tone of “it is not as you think” all lend to the friendly, informal feeling of this speech and others like it. By contrast, R. Akiva’s notion of a divine encounter is shrouded in mystery and awe. According to R. Akiva there are certain things that God showed Moses “with His finger.”14 We are not privy to what God showed him or to what it means to be shown something with God’s finger; the matter is mysterious and esoteric, and meant to be only partially revealed, unlike the simple straightforward conversations between God and humans in PRK. PRK’s use of the Song of Songs is similarly ordinary and mundane. For R. Akiva the Song of Songs is the Holy of Holies; it contains secrets about God’s nature. Thus, in his famous use of the Song of Songs in Mekhilta as part of an explanation of how Israel at the Sea “beautified” God, R. Akiva says that Israel recited a certain Song of Songs passage in order to reveal to the nations of the world “a small amount of His praise.” What the Song of Songs passage, “My beloved is clear-skinned and ruddy . . . ” (Song 5:10) meant is left to our imagination. Again, there is a great deal of mystery implied in the unexplained recitation of the verse as well as in the statement that this is “a small amount of His praise.” One gets the sense that more is being hidden than revealed.

14

Mekh Pisha 1, on the verse, “This month” (Ex 12:2).

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By contrast, PRK treats the Song of Songs as it does any other biblical text; it is a particularly useful text because of all of its intimate, emotional language, but there is generally no sense of mystery or esoterica in its use of the Song. In 5.7, for instance, the phrase, “The voice of my beloved” (Song 2:8), is said to refer to Moses when he tells Israel they are about to leave Egypt. The tone is matter-of-fact and mundane, assigning the voice to a historical period and figure without concern for its poetic and potentially esoteric character. There is no sense of sacredness or mystery about PRK’s use of the verse. 5.7 continues with its interpretation by assigning the next part of the verse, “There he comes, leaping over mountains, bounding over hills” to God. He is said to be leaping over mountains because He is leaping over the people’s sins, their idol worship, and leaping over time in His hurry to redeem them. Note that this explanation, while applying to God, is also not mysterious in flavor. First, unlike R. Akiva’s use of the Song of Songs, here the phrase is given explicit meaning. Second, here the verse is taken out of its physical meaning, a physicality that was a key element in R. Akiva’s esoterica, and given a metaphorical meaning. It is a vivid image for articulating God’s speedy, unfettered rush to redemption, not a literal, mysterious description of God’s physical being. Another strikingly non-awesome use of the Song of Songs in PRK is a midrash by R. Isaac, the same amora referred to above as preaching esoterica in public. In PRK 5.8, he uses the Song of Songs verse, “My beloved is like a gazelle or like a young stag. There he stands behind our wall, gazing through the window, peering through the lattice” (2:9) to speak about God’s revelation. What is striking is the regularity of God’s revelations; according to R. Isaac, God is like a gazelle in jumping from here to there, and appearing everywhere all the time. He jumps “from Egypt to the Sea, and from the Sea to Sinai,” and in each of these places, R. Isaac says, “They saw Him.” R. Isaac goes on to translate the metaphor to the contemporary moment, saying that the Holy One, like a gazelle, skips “from this synagogue to that synagogue, from this house of study to that house of study.” God is further said to be “standing behind our wall” in these synagogues and houses of study, and “gazing through the window” of the priests’ shoulders as they bless the people. This is not a mysterious awesome God whose description we can only hint at, and who reveals Himself only at unique, awesome moments and in a distant way. Rather, this is a God who appears regularly to His people and is involved in their ordinary daily priestly blessings in their human places of worship and study. The Song of Songs has become a vehicle for a sense of ordinary, regular contact with God.

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In order to give a final sense of how much more cautious R. Akiva and his contemporaries were with their depictions of divine revelation, consider the following passage from Sifra: [The Lord called Moses and spoke to him] from the tent of Meeting (Lev 1:2): I might have thought that it was from the whole temple. Therefore Scripture teaches, from above the cover (Ex 25:22). I might have thought that it was from above the whole cover. Therefore Scripture teaches, from between the two cherubim (Ex 25:22). These are the words of R. Akiva. R. Simon b. Azai said: I am not like one who refutes the words of my master, but rather like one who adds to his words. It says of the Glory, For I fill both heaven and earth, declares the Lord (Jer 23:24). See how far His love of Israel has taken this great Glory in order to squeeze Himself and to appear speaking from above the cover from between the two cherubim (Sifra Nedavah 2.12).

R. Akiva is careful to assign the divine presence to exactly the right spot; He appeared in that spot and no other, at that time and no other. There is a care and respect about the divine revelation of “the Glory” which we did not see in PRK, in its depiction of a jumping presence who appears with regularity to ordinary Israelites. R. Simon b. Azai makes this caution even more apparent with his citation of the verse, “For I fill both heaven and earth.” God is too great and large to really appear to humans at all, and only did so in this one spot out of His great love of Israel. The caution with regard to God’s glory is mirrored here by the caution R. Simon b. Azai expresses with regard to his teacher, R. Akiva. He is careful to make sure that it is clear he is not being disrespectful to his teacher and refuting his words, but adding to them and supporting them. There is a general sense of honor and caution, a sense that applies to all those deserving of respect, in this case both God and one’s teacher. This interaction between rabbis serves as a nice contrast to the interaction between R. Shimon b. Yohai and R. Eleazar son of R. Yosi spoken of in PRK 1.3; instead of caution and honor, the message of that PRK midrash is mirrored in the loving embrace R. Shimon b. Yohai offers the darshan at the conclusion of the midrash. To sum up, we have seen in PRK a shift to a more ordinary, accessible and everyday sort of God who speaks and appears to His people regularly and informally. While there are certain continuities with R. Akiva’s theology of intimacy and immanence, the movement toward wide accessibility and the de-mystification of the divine presence are new amoraic emphases.

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Authority, Obedience and Rebuke Chapter Four showed how strong the trend toward indulgence was in PRK; there was an eagerness to make things easy for Israel, not to make them work too hard legally, and also, not to be too hard on them in relation to their sins, but to erase and forgive and offer more praise than rebuke. Tannaitic midrash in general does not show the same indulgent streak, but often, on the contrary, seems peculiarly interested in a rhetoric of rebuke, and also in a rhetoric of authority, obedience and legal responsibility. In relation to rebuke, scholars have already noted a shift to a less negative and critical attitude toward non-rabbinic Jews in the amoraic period. Urbach points out that the amoraic aggadists went so far as to exonerate Israel of the Golden Calf and that they also showed a tendency to be critical of the prophets’ rebuke of Israel.15 Levine similarly points to a new rabbinic attitude beginning in the third century with respect to the Jewish community. Previous generations of rabbis had been extremely hostile toward the am ha’arets, their term for a non-rabbinic Jew, forbidding marriage or even social contact with such Jews and making frequent negative statements about their low status and lack of trustworthiness. Beginning in the third century, such negative attitudes are rarely found in the texts.16 PRK indeed does not use the derogatory term am ha’arets even once, but makes use of a term of praise instead, the term, bat tovim ubat ganasim, “the daughter of good and noble people,” to refer to Israel on a number of occasions.17 This term was previously used in tannaitic midrash to refer only to Moses.18 PRK’s ability to transfer this notion of nobility to include all of Israel shows a new attitude toward the Jewish masses. The fact that LR does not make the same use of this term nor does it preclude use of the earlier derogatory term implies that in this regard PRK may have made more significant changes.19 These changes are also reflected in the amount of rebuke found in our tannaitic and amoraic midrashim. Thus for instance, we have a parallel tradition found in both Mekhilta and PRK concerning the 4 commandments that the Israelites observed while they were in Egypt, but

15 Ephraim E. Urbach, The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs (trans. Israel Abrahams; Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1975), 554–563. 16 Levine, The Rabbinic Class, 112–117. 17 Three times. 18 Sifre Deut 26. 19 LR uses the term am ha’arets four times.

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the two midrashic texts frame the tradition very differently. In Mekhilta the tradition is framed negatively; the midrash begins by saying that the Israelites were completely naked of commandments and therefore needed the commandment concerning the taking of the paschal lamb in order to make them worthy of redemption.20 The tradition of the four commandments that the Israelites did observe in Egypt (chastity, refraining from gossip, and the retaining of their names and language) is then brought as a challenge to this view of their lack of good deeds. The tradition is refuted with the assertion that the Israelites were nonetheless so completely committed to idol worship that their other good deeds were cancelled. Mekhilta thus begins and ends with the notion that the Israelites in Egypt were unworthy sinners. By contrast, PRK (11.6) frames the tradition through the prism of the Song of Songs verse that is used in both texts as part of the description of the people’s chastity, “A garden locked is my own, my bride, a fountain locked, a sealed-up spring” (Song 4:12). A mashal is brought in which God is compared to a father-king who goes away and leaves his daughters to marry themselves off. When he returns, people accuse the daughters of having acted unchastely, and the father goes about proving that his daughters were actually legitimately married. In the parallel, God is said to have made the babies born to Israelites in Egypt look like their fathers so that there would be no question of Egyptian parentage. After some discussion of and praise for the Israelite women’s chastity, the midrash goes on to bring the rest of the tradition concerning the four commandments the Israelites observed in Egypt. The contrast to Mekhilta is great; PRK’s emphasis is entirely on the positive, praiseworthy behavior of the Israelites. Indeed, the mashal’s father is a good figure for PRK’s darshan; he, too, is involved in defending Israel against any rebukes that come her way—whether from outsiders or from insiders like the darshanim of Mekhilta—and demonstrating her innocence and praiseworthiness. There are many other examples of such a contrast. Mekhilta begins its discussion of the term “On the third new moon” (Ex 19:1) with a discussion of different types of calendars. The discussion ends with a lengthy rebuke aimed at those who, because they were not willing to be subservient to God, have now made themselves subservient to foreign nations, living under foreign rule and using a foreign calendar. By contrast to this rebuke, PRK understands the “third new moon” designation as a mark of

20

Mekh Pisha 5.

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God’s love and indulgence of Israel, waiting for three months until they have healed (12.3), and marking time by their departure from Egypt like a father who marks time by the redemption of his captured son (6.11). Another example of such a contrast can be seen in the differing interpretations of Numbers 28:1–2, “The Lord spoke to Moses, saying: Command the Israelite people and say to them: Be punctilious in presenting to Me at stated times the offerings . . .” Consider Sifre Num’s comment: Why does it say this? Because it says: [Moses spoke to the Lord, saying: Let the Lord, Source of the breath of all flesh, appoint someone over the community] who shall go out before them and come in before them (Num 23:17). What is this like? It is like a king whose wife was dying. She was instructing him with regard to her sons. She said to him: Please be careful for me with regard to my sons. He said to her: Before you instruct me with regard to my sons, instruct my sons with regard to me that they should not rebel against me and that they should not treat me shamefully. So, too, the Holy One blessed be He said to Moses: Before you instruct Me with regard to My sons, instruct My sons with regard to Me, so that they should not rebel against me and so that they should not switch My Glory for strange gods (Sifre Num 142).

This midrash is explaining the connection between Moses’ request of God to appoint a new leader (Num 23) and God’s instructions for Moses to deliver to Israel with regard to being punctilious about the sacrifices. The midrash suggests that God is responding to Moses’ request by saying that instead of worrying about instructing God with regard to Israel’s care, like a dying mother to her husband, he should be instructing Israel to be obedient to God. Moses shows a touch of maternal care, according to the midrash, but God, acting like the father, rejects that way of thinking, instead suggesting that Israel does not so much need care as a warning not to rebel. Both PRK and LR have a tradition with regard to this Numbers verse, along with a number of other verses in which God commands Moses to “say” or “instruct” or “command” the Israelites, and this tradition stands in marked contrast to the angry, rebuking tone of Sifre. The amoraic midrashim compare these repeated commands to instruct the Israelites to a king’s instructions to his servant to take special care of a favored garment; such frequent special instruction is a sign of special favor and love.21 In another midrash, PRK understands God’s request that Israel be punctilious in observing these commands to be a sign that God especially 21

LR 2.4 and PRK 2.7.

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favored Israel’s sacrifices over those of the nations and therefore wanted to make sure that it was these that were continued (PRK 6.3). To be sure, the beginning of 6.3 also includes a midrash suggesting that God’s command to be punctilious was a warning not to take the sacrifices lightly. Nonetheless, the special instruction is not, as in Sifre, only a sign of the need for a special rebuke or warning, but also a sign of special favor. The toning down of anger and rebuke in these amoraic texts is striking in contrast to their tannaitic parallels. Attitudes toward the responsibility of the commandments also differ greatly. Tannaitic midrash, with its emphasis on halakhah, naturally deals much more frequently with laws and all of their minute details than does amoraic midrash, with its emphasis on aggadah. In addition to this difference in focus on the actual law, we also find great differences in their attitudes toward the notion of law and its inherent obligations and responsibilities. Consider the difference between PRK’s and Mekhilta’s descriptions of what happened before the Torah was given at Sinai. PRK understands this to be a period of indulgence and courtship; it is like a father taking care of his sick child and feeding him special food before he has to go back to school (12.3), or like a man trying to entice a woman to marry him through the means of sweets and heroic deeds (12.11). By contrast, Mekhilta, reflecting an emphasis already present in the biblical text, is concerned with the Israelites’ acceptance of the yoke of the commandments. On a number of occasions, Mekhilta refers to the process of saying “yes” to a positive commandment and “no” to a negative one as a sign of the acceptance of these commandments (Mekh Bahodesh 4). Moreover, according to one midrash, prior to the giving of the Torah, Moses read some portion of the commandments to the Israelites, and when they responded, “We accept these upon ourselves,” Moses sprinkled blood on the people and said to them: “Behold you are tied, caught and bound. Tomorrow, come and receive all of the commandments” (Mekh Bahodesh 3). While according to PRK, the Israelites arrive at Sinai through the means of enticement and courtship, according to Mekhilta, they arrive at Sinai through the acceptance of authority and obligation. This notion of being tied and bound to the commandments, of experiencing the commandments as a burden, an ol, “a yoke,” is a common one in tannaitic midrash. Sifre Deut, in its description of Sinai, ends three different midrashim in the same way, with a reference to the Israelites’

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acceptance of “the yoke of the Torah.”22 Elsewhere in tannaitic midrash we also find discussions of accepting “the yoke of heaven” and “the yoke of commandments,” and also just accepting “the kingship of heaven,” in total 14 times. There is only one reference in PRK to such a yoke and that one reference concerns God’s dismantling of the yoke as a reward to the righteous.23 LR does not use these terms at all. Instead of such discussions of yokes and burdens, as we saw in chapter 4, PRK makes every effort to imply that the commandments are easy to observe, or at least easier than one might have thought. God is shown frequently saying to Moses or to Israel that “he has not burdened” [lo hitrahti] them but made the commandments fairly easy to keep, allowing one to sit while saying the Shma and to bring as sacrifices only those animals which are easily brought. And whenever Moses is worried about how he can possibly accomplish a divine command, God is there to assure him that it is not as he thought, lo keshe’at savur, but rather a good deal easier. Such terms of ease are not present in tannaitic midrash. In addition to the notion of obligation and yoke, another related tannaitic notion is the bending of the human will to God’s will. This notion is encapsulated in the phrase, la’asot retsono, “to do His will,” a phrase that appears more frequently in tannaitic than in amoraic midrash. One example of its use is in relation to sacrifices. After denying that feeding God is the motivation for offering sacrifices, Sifre Num suggests, in a passage cited earlier, that instead one should understand the matter as follows: “He spoke and His will was done (Sifre Num 143).” PRK’s treatment of the same biblical passage includes no such notions of God’s will, but instead, as noted earlier, uses the sacrifices as a means of showing how easy God is to please (6.1) and how special He regards Israel (6.3). This last Sifre Num midrash about God’s will brings us to our next topic, a shift in power dynamic and notions of authority and honor. In chapter 4 we found subtle shifts of power in the PRK midrashim, texts in which God seemed to be serving the people’s will instead of vice versa.

22 This is Fraade’s translation. Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary, 49. The Hebrew text reads simply mekablim alehem, “they accepted upon themselves,” presumably, as Fraade translates, the yoke of the Torah. The lack of explicit mention of the term “yoke” in this text suggests that there might be other such examples not picked up by a CD-Rom search for the term “yoke.” 23 See Nispahim, Vezot Haberachah.

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Tannaitic midrash does not participate in this shift, but stands in marked contrast with its maintenance of the honor of God and of the human need to serve Him. One way to see these contrasting attitudes is in their differing stories about God as an angry king: It is like a king who got angry with his wife and sent her out. After some time, he was reconciled to her. Immediately, she girded her loins, knit her shoulders and served him exceedingly (Sifra Shemini 1). It is like a king who got angry with [his] lady, banished her and sent her out of his palace. After some time, he wished to bring her back. She said: Let him do something new for me, and then he may bring me back (PRK 1.1).

In both meshalim, the king is initially angry and sends his wife away, but later changes his mind and is reconciled to her. Here the differences begin. According to Sifra, all that is needed to accomplish the reconciliation is his change of heart. She is dying to come back and serve him; in fact, she comes back and serves him even more whole-heartedly this time, presumably in order not to displease him again or in order to show him how pleased she is to have been brought back. The power resides entirely in His, God’s, hands, and she comes or goes at His whim, hoping to be a good servant. The power dynamic in PRK is more complicated. He has the initial power to throw her out, but then, when he wants her back, it is not as simple as in the Sifra story. As noted earlier in this book, she has the power to refuse to return, and, because of this power, she also has the power to make demands; she cannot be taken for granted, but must be wooed back, convinced that her new situation will be better than her last. While in Sifra, it is the woman who does something great for the man upon her return, to thank him for his kindness in allowing her to return, in PRK, it is the man who must do something, “something new,” for the woman. This Sifra passage represents for us its sense of a clear demarcation of lines of authority, power and service. We have already spoken of how the PRK passage reflects its struggle to woo the people toward a rabbinic way of life, and how this desire for influence gives the people some power in the relationship. Sifra, on the other hand, may be reflecting the hierarchical power structures of rabbi-disciple circles in the tannaitic world, and its own unreconstructed sense of the importance of maintaining authority, that of God and that of the rabbi. This point will be returned to in the conclusion. As a further support for the purposefulness of these literary distinctions, I would point to another set of very similar parallel texts. These texts also

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deal with a form of the angry king mashal, but in this case, they include one more detail, the doubling of the ketubah as part of the reconciliation process. Sifre to Numbers tells the story of a king who is so angry with his wife that he calls for a scribe to write her a bill of divorce. By the time the scribe arrives, however, the husband has been reconciled to his wife and, in an attempt to make use of the scribe in any case, decides to double her ketubah (Sifre Num 131). PRK 19.5 tells the same story as 1.1 except that instead of having the woman demand “something new” as the price of her return, she demands that her ketubah be doubled. The similarity of the doubling of the ketubah detail makes it seem likely that PRK was aware of the earlier tradition and transformed it. In any case, these texts make a very similar contrast to the one above; whereas in Sifre Num only the husband has the power to speak and act, and it is he who asks the scribe to double the ketubah, in PRK, the woman takes on some power and a voice as it is she who demands the doubling as the price of her return. Again, PRK has lost the clear lines of power and authority present in the Sifre text, complicating the power dynamic and imagining a woman who must first be won over before she will return. Related to this shift in the depiction of who is powerful, there is also a shift in whose honor is deemed most worthy of protection. Tannaitic midrashim are frequently found protecting the honor and glory of God. Earlier we saw a Sifra passage in which there is a concern about how God’s “great Glory” could squeeze into the small space of the tabernacle. In another instance, the Mekhilta warns against a certain interpretation because it makes God seem like He has gone back on His word. “We need not make Moses great if it is to be done only by making God change His mind and go back on His word” (Mekh Bahodesh 4).24 In another instance, Sifra insists that one should be careful about the order in which one says God’s name and a sacrifice in order not to make light of His name (Sifra Nedavah 2.4). These examples stand in contrast to the marked concern for the protection of the people’s honor in our amoraic midrashim. While in the Sifra passage about the divine presence in the tabernacle, the concern was for God’s honor, in PRK the concern is for Israel’s honor; a mashal is told of a father who decides no longer to meet with his daughter in public because it is no longer befitting “her honor.” In the nimshal God similarly

24 See Fraade’s article on these midrashic passages about God’s changing His mind. Fraade, “Moses and the Commandments.”

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expresses a concern for “the honor of my children” (PRK 1.2). Similarly, LR 2.6 makes the point that Scripture gave honor to Israel in the way that it phrased a certain verse, the very same verse (though a different phrase) which Sifra found to testify to the correct way to honor God ’s name. Conclusion The theology of the tannaitic midrashim is generally quite different from that of the amoraic midrashim. The tannaitic God is more distant, awesome and authoritarian, while the amoraic God is more intimate, informal, and indulgent. While tannaitic midrashim generally emphasize the danger of intimacy with God and the burden of the law, amoraic midrashim paint a picture of a religion that is more easy-going and forgiving. These contrasts are starkest when comparisons are made between the Ishmaelan midrashim and PRK, but generally still hold when the other midrashim are included, suggesting a historical movement with variations. This chapter and the previous one are intimately connected, as the style and theology of each period’s midrashim work together to create a coherent rhetoric. Tannaitic midrash’s greater exegetical constraint and its use of a distant intellectual voice as opposed to a warm personal voice fits well with a theology of transcendence, obedience and authority. One must honor God, the biblical text, and the rabbis, not in an intimate friendly way but in a distant, awesome way. Similarly, for amoraic midrash, a style which includes the informal personal voice of God and a relatively free attitude toward exegesis fits well with a theology of intimacy, immanence and indulgence. Accessibility, ease and warmth are emphasized in an atmosphere which lacks the awe and discipline of tannaitic midrashim. As I have suggested throughout this book, amoraic midrash’s choice of rhetoric was a choice made as an attempt to win followers to the rabbinic way of life, an attempt to create an accessible, warm, non-judgmental rhetoric which would appeal to a wide range of Jews. What was the purpose of the rhetoric encountered in these tannaitic midrashim? Scholars such as Steven Fraade have maintained that tannaitic midrashim (or at least some of them) are engaged in an inner-rabbinic dialogue, addressing primarily their own circles of scholars and disciples.25 Such an approach makes sense of the evidence uncovered in this chapter, as the creation of

25

Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary, 18.

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an atmosphere of discipline, awe, authority and obedience would serve such scholar-disciple circles well. However, this understanding of tannaitic midrash’s purpose is not the only possibility. Beth Berkowitz suggests that the rabbis of the Mishnah are involved in the same struggle to gain authority in non-rabbinic circles as we have claimed for PRK. According to Berkowitz, however, the tannaim of the Mishnah hoped to achieve popularity and influence by creating a rhetoric of authority, by creating a literature that imagined them to have the punitive authority they did not possess in historical reality.26 The same could be said for the rabbis of the tannaitic midrashim; perhaps they, too, developed a rhetoric of awe and authority as an attempt to achieve such authority among a large segment of Jews. Understood in this way, the shift from tannaitic to amoraic midrash becomes not a shift in audience, but a shift in means of persuasion; the tannaim chose a rhetoric of authority as a persuasive technique while the amoraim chose a rhetoric of intimacy and indulgence. Whether the change in rhetoric was a result of a change in audience or a change in attitude and means of persuasion, the change warrants attention. Why did the rabbis of the amoraic midrashim choose to address their audiences in this new way? Why did they consider this rhetoric to be more appealing? What historical and cultural changes were afoot in late antique Palestine to facilitate such a shift in perspective? The following section on the historical and cultural context of PRK will address these questions.

26

Berkowitz, Execution and Invention, 6–7 and throughout.

PART FOUR

PRK IN HISTORICAL CONTEXT

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE SOCIAL AND INSTITUTIONAL CONTEXT: THE CHANGING WORLD OF LATE ANTIQUITY The new more accessible, personal and indulgent language of PRK and to some extent of amoraic homiletical midrash more generally does not emerge in a vacuum, but as part of certain larger trends and shifts taking place within rabbinic literature, rabbinic history and the larger Roman and Christian worlds. This chapter will explore some of the ways in which PRK’s special discourse may be understood as a unique product of this period, shaped by the period’s historical changes and peculiar concerns and anxieties. The historical period under study in this chapter necessarily spans a wide berth, from roughly the third through the fifth centuries, in order to include both the period of PRK’s named tradents (third through fourth centuries) as well as the period of its redaction (fifth century). As we will see, many of the historical shifts of the late antique period span a similar period, although certain distinctions can and will be made. This chapter also casts a wide net in terms of its notion of historical context. We will begin with the innermost context of rabbinic literature itself, move on to changes in the rabbinic movement, and finally consider the broader changes in the Roman Christian Empire as a whole. Internal Shifts within Rabbinic Literature and the Rabbinic Movement The shift from halakhic to aggadic tendencies in rabbinic midrash is partly due to the natural evolution of the midrashic genre. The rabbis began with legal interpretation of the Bible, focusing their energies on books of mostly legal character, to the exclusion of Genesis and the first 12 chapters of Exodus, which are aggadic in content. In the amoraic period, the locus of legal commentary shifted away from the Bible; the biblical task was complete and there was a new book in need of legal interpretation, the Mishnah.1 1 This understanding of rabbinic literature’s development was suggested to me by Steven Fraade.

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This movement of legal interpretation from the Bible to the Mishnah freed up the biblical text for aggadic interpretation. In addition, the project of midrash naturally shifted to biblical texts not yet interpreted, aggadic ones like Genesis. This shift facilitated the creation of the genre of aggadic midrash which could then be applied even to legal biblical texts as in Leviticus Rabbah, and indeed in many parts of PRK. The shift from a halakhic to an aggadic orientation both facilitated and was part of a larger trend within the rabbinic movement, one which has often been noted in the course of this book, the movement of rabbis outward to reach a larger segment of the Jewish non-rabbinic population. By the sixth century, we know that the rabbis had made some headway in this outreach project, as is evidenced by the heavy use of rabbinic traditions in the liturgical poetry of the piyyut, as Schwartz has pointed out.2 And a few centuries after that, in the geonic period, the rabbis had become the official leaders of the Jews, and their brand of religion the standard institutional form of Judaism. The third century was the beginning of this journey. It is here that we see the first signs of a shift away from the exclusive tannaitic inward preoccupation with scholarship and disciples. This understanding of rabbinic history is a new consensus among scholars, one that continues to push the emergence of serious rabbinic influence and authority later and later into history, in contrast to the early Yavnean date (70 C.E.) posited by previous generations of scholars. New scholars such as Levine, Goodman and Cohen point to a fundamental shift in the nature of the rabbinic movement beginning in the third century, a shift toward greater interest and involvement in the larger Jewish community.3 One sign of this shift already noted in earlier chapters is the change in the rabbis’ use of the derogatory term am ha’arets to refer to a nonrabbinic Jew. Most of the statements using this term are from the second century or earlier, and strikingly negative. Contact with an am ha’arets was considered defiling, and it was therefore forbidden to socialize with them or marry them, with the implication that they “were almost synonymous with gentiles.”4 This negative attitude began to change toward the middle of the third century, when the use of this term became somewhat less

2

Seth Schwartz, Imperialism, 263–274. Levine, The Rabbinic Class; Goodman, State and Society; and Cohen, “The Place of the Rabbi.” 4 Cohen, “The Place of the Rabbi,” 165. 3

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common and occasionally positive. The term began to disappear from use by the end of the third, beginning of the fourth century. As Levine concludes, “The absence of such material, especially in sources of Palestinian origin, may best be explained by assuming an increasingly tolerant attitude on the part of the sages.”5 The rabbis of the third and fourth centuries did more than tolerate their fellow Jews. They also began to take an active role in their affairs. Shaye Cohen points out that the tannaim made no attempt to teach the masses Torah, and that there is some evidence that they in fact tried to keep it secret.6 In the third century and following the rabbis began to take on communal posts as local judges, teachers of the young, and as parnasim, a job related in some way to the collection and distribution of communal charities.7 At least some of these posts became available to them now for the first time as a result of the increased imperial influence of the patriarch R. Judah HaNasi. The shift is not merely one of opportunity, however, but also one of attitude, as in the third and fourth centuries we find a new more positive attitude toward such work, as the rabbis upgraded it by even equating it to the study of Torah.8 In relation to the synagogue, too, the rabbis began to take a more active role. While the synagogue remained a predominantly non-rabbinic institution during this period, as is evidenced by its mosaics and epigraphs, the rabbis began to take on some leadership roles there. Levine speaks of three such roles.9 The first is that of the teacher or preacher. Catherine Heszer points to the public expounding of Scripture as one of the major innovations of the amoraic rabbis.10 The third and fourth century produced a number of important preachers, including the famous aggadist R. Yohanan of Sepphoris, his student R. Abbahu, of Cesarea, and R. Shmuel b. Nahman of Lod.11 We have numerous amoraic traditions describing these and other rabbis as involved in public preaching, especially on the Sabbath. We also have the external evidence of Jerome (342–419 C.E.), who speaks of the excitement that the public evinced toward the preacher, supporting the notion that at least by the fourth century, the rabbis were 5

Levine, The Rabbinic Class, 117. Cohen, “The Place of the Rabbi.” 7 Levine, The Rabbinic Class, 162–167. 8 See Heszer, The Social Structure of the Rabbinic Movement in Roman Palestine (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997), 402–403. See also Levine, The Rabbinic Class, 31. 9 Levine, “The Sages and the Synagogue.” 10 Heszer, “Jewish Literacy,” 187–189. 11 See PRK 18.5 and LR 35.12, and Levine’s discussion of those passages in The Ancient Synagogue, 461ff. See also David Stern’s discussion in “Anthology and Polysemy.” 6

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engaged in public preaching.12 The other two areas of rabbinic activity in the synagogue, according to Levine, are adjudication of halakhic matters and education of the young.13 Levine also points to a marked increase in references to the synagogue in amoraic sources as evidence of increased rabbinic involvement in this institution.14 Another shift associated with the rabbis’ apparent new interest in the people is a shift in their halakhic attitudes and interests. Both Goodman and Cohen note that the tannaim of the first and second centuries are said to deal with a relatively higher number of cases of purity and tithing, whereas the rabbis after R. Judah the Patriarch are said to deal with a relatively higher number of civil cases.15 The implication of this shift from purity to civil law is a shift from issues of a more sectarian nature to issues of broader application and interest. This evidence may also be correlated to the decrease in the use of the term am-harets in the third century as one of its chief uses was to differentiate the rabbinic haver who was careful about the observance of purity laws from the non-rabbinic am ha’arets, who was not considered to be as careful. The shift away from purity laws may also be part of a broader, non-rabbinic phenomenon of decreasing interest in purity issues as the temple receded into more ancient history; there is some archaeological evidence that beginning in the third century ritual baths or mikva’ot fell into disuse.16 Whether the rabbis were instigating a change or merely following or participating in a shift of a broader nature, the change in the topic of case laws indicates a shift to issues that at least have the capacity to be of interest to a broader population.

12

Jerome, In Ezekiel 33, 33 as cited in Levine, The Ancient Synagogue, 462. Levine, “The Sages and the Synagogue,” 208–211. 14 Levine, “The Sages and the Synagogue,” 208. One wonders whether this increase in textual reference to the synagogue is merely a reflection of the increase in synagogue building taking place in the fourth century. There is a notable absence of synagogue construction in the period 70–350 C.E. See Levine, The Ancient Synagogue and Schwartz, Imperialism. 15 Goodman, State and Society, 94–101; and Cohen, “The Place of the Rabbi,” 157–164. 16 See Leonard V. Rutgers, “Some Reflections on the Archaeological Finds from the Domestic Quarter on the Acropolis of Sepphoris” in Religious and Ethnic Communities in Later Roman Palestine (ed. Hayim Lapin; Bethesda, Md.: University Press of Maryland, 1998), 190 and 195. See also Schwartz’s comment on Rutgers. Schwartz, Imperialism, 144. 13

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There is also some evidence that the rabbis during this period made certain strikingly lenient halakhic decisions, relaxing laws related to certain forms of usury, the use of decorative figural representations, as well as bans on the export of fruit and wine outside of Palestine and of gentile oil. Urbach has shown that these amoraic leniencies were a great change from the stricter ones of the tannaitic period. He posits that the change was due to economic hardships of the third century.17 Others such as Goodman suggest that such relaxation of laws was part of a rabbinic attempt to win followers by making rabbinic religious practices less onerous.18 Levine suggests that the shift shows that the rabbis are beginning to be in touch with the needs of the people in a time of crisis.19 Related to this new openness toward a larger segment of the population, Cohen argues that one of the changes of the third century rabbinate was an increase in the numbers of poor among their number. He shows that tannaitic traditions do not speak of rabbis as poor but as rich landowners, whereas amoraic traditions often speak both of tannaim (a retrojection, according to Cohen) and of amoraim as poor.20 This suggests a new more open rabbinic movement that opened its doors to all classes. In this vein, it should be noted that around the late third and fourth century we see a marked increase in the number of named rabbis in Palestine, implying the entrance of new blood.21 PRK’s new religious language fits well with these shifts, and seems to be a part of the same outreach movement. The new language is more accessible and also more purposely attractive, with its emphasis on emotion and on speaking directly in a conversational tone to the audience. The emphasis on indulgence also fits well with the rabbinic leniencies of

17 Ephraim Elimelech Urbach, “The Rabbinical Laws of Idolatry in the Second and Third Centuries in the Light of Archaeological and Historical Facts,” Israel Exploration Journal 9, 1148–165, 225–245. This economic explanation has been disputed by Hayes, who argues that the relaxation of the laws can be explained in purely exegetical terms. Hayes, Between the Babylonian and Palestinian Talmuds, 61–62. 18 Goodman, State and Society, 179–181. 19 Levine, The Rabbinic Class, 31. 20 Cohen, “The Place of the Rabbi,” 168–171. Goodman, on the other hand, argues that the rabbis actually began to acquire wealth during this period, and that it was this wealth which led to their relaxation of laws, as they grew to understand the concerns of other wealthy land-owning Galileans. Goodman, State and Society, 179–181. What the two views have in common is an assumption that the rabbis are coming into closer contact with non-rabbinic Jews, whether they be rich or poor. 21 See the numbers in Levine, The Rabbinic Class, 67. Note that the rise leveled off in the late fourth century.

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the third and fourth centuries and with the general notion that, as Goodman has suggested, the rabbis are trying to attract followers through such indulgence, both actual and rhetorical. Looking back at these historical changes in the rabbinic movement, how do we explain their appearance at this time and place? What factors precipitated this new attitude toward the people? Something had come to change, and it was something that changed specifically in Palestine, as the same changes in the rabbinic movement cannot be found in Babylonian sources. Indeed, Kalmin has shown that quite the opposite is the case in Babylonia; the rabbis there maintained their separation from the people in a much more rigid fashion and looked with disdain on the people even in the amoraic period.22 Traditionally, scholars have posited a number of factors to explain the Palestinian third century shift. First, there is the geographical factor. After the Bar Kochba War, in the second century, many rabbis moved from Judea to the Galilee where they came into contact with a large number of non-rabbinic Jews.23 This move began the process that was even more heightened in the third century when many rabbis began to move from rural to urban areas within the Galilee as part of a general process of urbanization in the Roman Empire. As Levine has suggested, this process no doubt gave rabbis far more contact with the general Jewish population than they had had previously. Rabbi Judah the Patriarch himself moved from the small town of Beth Shearim to Sepphoris during this period, and many others made similar moves, changing the centers of rabbinic activity from small towns like Yavneh, Bnei Brak, Usha, Shefaram, and Beth Shearim, to the major urban centers of Tiberias, Sepphoris and Cesarea.24 A second factor often posited is the rise of two individual figures during the third century, first R. Judah the Patriarch (d. 225), whose work on the Mishnah signaled the end of the tannaitic period, and second, the second generation amora R. Yohanan (d. 280). R. Judah the Patriarch 22 Kalmin, The Sage in Jewish Society, 27–50. See also Jeffrey L. Rubenstein, The Culture of the Babylonian Talmud (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003), 123–142, who argues that it was the stammaim who were responsible for the hostility expressed in the Bavli toward non-rabbinic Jews. 23 Some scholars question this view, asserting that rabbis had ties to the north even prior to the Bar Kochba war. See Cohen, “The Place of the Rabbi,” 160. Even according to such views, however, it is clear that the center of rabbinic power did shift from south to north during this period. 24 Levine, The Rabbinic Class, 25ff.

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was the first patriarch to have real official power and prestige granted by the Roman imperial government to the patriarchate. He forged ties with Roman officials and gained wealth and privileges from the government that in turn gave him a great deal of authority in the Jewish community. Through their association with R. Judah and with the patriarchs who followed him, the rabbis also gained some increase in prestige in the Jewish community. Moreover, the rabbis were the principal recipients of the communal posts made available through the patriarch’s new powers. It may have been on the coattails of this rise of R. Judah and the patriarchate that the rabbis began to establish their own authority. R. Yohanan was one of the leading amoraim of his time, cited more often than any other amora in the Palestinian Talmud and known to have attracted students from far and wide to his academy in Tiberias. He was both an accomplished halakhist and aggadist, and particularly known for his lenient rulings with regard to certain economic sanctions. It was beginning during his time that we see the rise in numbers of rabbis, suggesting that it was in part his doing.25 External Changes: The Roman-Christian Context These factors are significant, but mostly internal and local. As we will see, the shift in the rabbinic movement as well as many aspects of the new religious language developed in PRK are part of certain larger trends within the Roman Christian world of its time. First, it should be said that late antiquity by all accounts was a time of great foment and change. Old pagan institutions were dying and being replaced by Christian institutions. A new type of leadership was emerging, as we will see further below. And the old secure sense that the universe was predictable and secure, controlled by the same gods that had functioned for centuries was beginning to be eroded. Persuasion and conversion were in the air, as was the feeling of competition, as masses of people shifted alliances to the Christian camp.26 It is in this atmosphere of change, this culture of persuasion and conversion, that we best see the rabbinic shifts, their attempts to win over adherents and the consequent persuasive language of PRK. Peter Brown shows that in some ways it was Christianity itself which underwent a process of conversion in the fourth

25 26

Levine, The Rabbinic Class, 67. See Brown, The World of Late Antiquity, 7–96.

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century, with its adoption of certain pagan ideas; the same may be said of rabbinic Judaism, for, as we have seen, in its attempt to attract adherents, it changed its traditional rhetoric and orientation to create a new more accessible, more indulgent and personal rhetoric.27 One of the greatest changes of this period is the movement toward greater openness and fluidity within the class structure of the Roman Empire. Peter Brown writes of this process as beginning in the third century as a result of the Roman Empire’s many wars. In order to defend itself against its many enemies, the Roman Empire reorganized its army so that class and nobility no longer mattered as much as talent.28 Those with talent quickly rose to positions of power in the army, and, even after the wars, this power transferred to power in the government, infusing the government with new blood drawn from a much wider class structure than previously. There are other marks of this new fluidity in the society as well. The teaching profession was also one of “exceptional fluidity,”29 constantly allowing new talent to enter and move upward. Brown points out that of the Fathers of the Church, only one, Ambrose, was from a senatorial family. All the others, Plotinus, Augustine and John Chrysostom, were from obscure regions of the empire, making their own way into positions of power.30 Indeed, Christians capitalized on this new openness in the Empire, and made it their hallmark. Christians became “the most flexible and open group.”31 They removed the barrier of classical education, declaring that the road to knowledge and therefore to power could also be achieved through personal revelation and conversion. The rise of the monks stood for the bypassing of the normal roads to power, and the possibility of achieving such power in a new, otherworldly manner. Christianity was officially a universalis via, a “universal way” of salvation for all, poor and highborn alike.32 Christianity offered a kind of “populism, that flouted the culture of the governing classes and claimed to have brought, instead, simple words, endowed with divine authority,

27 28 29 30 31 32

Brown, Brown, Brown, Brown, Brown, Brown,

The World of Late Antiquity, 82ff. The World of Late Antiquity, 26ff. The World of Late Antiquity, 32. The World of Late Antiquity, 33. The World of Late Antiquity, 88. Power and Persuasion, 74.

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to the masses of the empire.”33 Auerbach has pointed out the many ways in which Christian culture prided itself on its lowliness, its lowborn, earthly God, the simple unadorned style of its Scriptures, and the lack of culture of many of its heroes.34 While, according to MacMullen, the main audience of Christian preachers appears to have been the welleducated elite, Christian congregations were still known for their social diversity.35 Moreover, the church reached out to encompass a segment of the population that until now had not been touched by the local Roman notables, the growing groups of poor who were not part of any official urban grouping such as the craftsmen, the butchers or the bakers. The bishops, who became known as “lovers of the poor,” won the loyalty of these non-affiliated poor with simple gifts of food and clothing.36 The rabbis’ new interest in other non-rabbinic and therefore, in their minds, non-elite, Jews around them, makes sense as part of this cultural mood of openness and fluidity. The development of a new religious language that is more accessible and appealing to a wider range of people also fits well into this cultural milieu; Christianity had created a climate in which it was acceptable to offer simple fare for a diverse population. Alongside this new openness there developed with the growth of Christianity in the Roman Empire something of an opposing trend, a stronger sense of boundaries, of defining who is in and who is out, and a new sense that such boundaries should be determined by religion. This situation was in contrast to the first few centuries of the era that were marked by great religious unmarkedness. As Boyarin, Cohen and Schwartz have argued, the boundaries between Jews and pagans and Christians in the first two centuries of the common era were highly fluid and undetermined so that it was easy to float from one group to another and to inhabit multiple partial identities.37 Indeed, as Schwartz has shown, the Jews of the first few centuries show few signs of a distinctive identity, but rather seem to participate freely in the Greco-Roman urban culture. What changes with the rise of Christianity and with its attainment of official political status is that Christianity, unlike paganism, is an intolerant religion. As Schwartz

33

Brown, Power and Persuasion, 74. Auerbach, “Sermo Humilis.” 35 Ramsay MacMullen, “The Preacher’s Audience,” Journal of Theological Studies N.S. 40 (1989):504–511. 36 Brown, Power and Persuasion, 89. 37 Boyarin, Border Lines; Cohen, The Beginnings of Jewishness; and Schwartz, Imperialism. 34

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has pointed out, one could successfully be both Jew and pagan, but to be both Jew and Christian was to be a heretic.38 This new importance of religion and of religious boundaries meant that the Jews were increasingly marginalized from full participation in the Roman Empire. Schwartz points out that the novelty of some of the imperial laws of the late fourth century lies in their looking at Jews as “a discrete category of humanity” for the first time.39 While there has been some debate over the intensity of the hostility of Christian emperors toward the Jews, it seems clear that there was a general growth in hostility during this period. For example, new laws forbade Jews from serving as imperial officers, from ownership of Christian slaves and from construction of new synagogues (the last of which clearly was not put into practice, as we will see below).40 Schwartz has argued that the newly important role of the Christian religion in the Roman Empire and its attendant exclusion of the Jews led to a corresponding new importance placed on Judaism among Jews, a “rejudaization,” a return to Jewish identity and practice. Whereas Jewish art and architecture from the period of 70–350 reflects mostly pagan influence, beginning in the late third and fourth centuries, we begin to see distinctive Jewish art, and we begin to find, after a hiatus of several hundred years, a sudden flurry of synagogue construction, parallel to the great surge of church construction in the fifth and sixth centuries.41 There is also during this period “an explosion of [Jewish] literary production,” of which PRK is but one example.42 How did the rabbis fit into all of these changes, this increased hostility and marginalization as well as this rejudaization? Schwartz argues for a very minimal role, seeing their influence as only becoming fully apparent in the sixth century with the rise of piyyut; he insists that though they may have benefited from these trends, they did not themselves influence them.43 I have no argument with this assessment, except perhaps to pose a slightly different question. Instead of asking the question of influence, I

38 Schwartz, Imperialism, 192. For Schwartz’s general argument, see also his “Some Types of Jewish-Christian Interaction in Late Antiquity” in Jewish Culture and Society, 197–210. 39 Schwartz, Imperialism, 187. 40 Schwartz, Imperialism, 195. 41 See Schwartz, Imperialism, 179ff. Note however that Schwartz sees the first inklings of these trends already in the third century. 42 Schwartz, Imperialism, 16. 43 Schwartz, Imperialism, 16 and throughout.

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wonder about the question of participation. In what way can the rabbinic documents from this era be seen to participate in these broader changes and react to them? Both Shaye Cohen and Christine Hayes have written about the rabbinic development of the conversion ceremony. Interestingly enough, Cohen sees it as a mark of change toward less fluidity between groups and the greater demarcation of boundaries, whereas Hayes understands it, in contrast to the exclusive attitude of the Ezran Second Temple groups, as a move toward greater permeability in group boundaries, offering a mechanism for those not born into the group to join.44 Hayes sees this rabbinic development of bodily conversion as parallel to the Christian creation of a mechanism for conversion through faith.45 Hayes and Cohen are simply emphasizing different aspects of the notion of conversion. The creation of such a process is both a step toward greater permeability of boundaries as well as a step toward the greater fixity of those boundaries, implying a new preoccupation with who is in and who is out and a lack of tolerance for the gray zone that seems to have existed in earlier periods. Cohen points out that the rabbinic conversion ceremony is modeled on another rabbinic ceremony of transformation, that used to demarcate the boundaries between the rabbinic haver and the non-rabbinic am ha’arets.46 As we have already noted, in the first and second centuries, the am ha’arets had roughly the status of a Gentile so that establishing these boundaries was of great importance. There seems to have been some shift in understanding of which boundaries were important to police beginning in the third and fourth centuries, a shift away from the demarcation of rabbinic/non-rabbinic boundaries toward a demarcation of Jewish/non-Jewish boundaries. Was this shift a reaction to the Christian marginalization of the Jews, a movement toward greater unity in the face of group attack? Possibly. Whether or not it is related to Christian attacks, however, the rabbinic movement mirrors the general movement of Jews toward greater Jewishness. Just at the period when Jews are generally becoming more Jewish, rabbis are becoming less exclusively rabbinic and more accessible. Rabbis may not have influenced the movement, but they seem to have taken advantage of the opportunity to meet non-rabbinic Jews halfway.

44 45 46

Cohen, The Beginnings of Jewishness, 198ff. Hayes, Gentile Impurities, 194 and throughout. Cohen, The Beginnings of Jewishness, 237.

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Signs of this attempt by the rabbis to accommodate themselves to the new Jewish interests may be seen in the nature of PRK’s endeavor. It is a commentary on the special holiday and shabbat Torah portions read in the synagogue, a non-rabbinic institution. The tannaitic commentaries are not organized around such synagogal readings, but rather around the Bible itself and their own understanding of its thematic and legal organizational principles. PRK, as well as LR, which divides Leviticus into parshiyyot based on the Palestinian triennial cycle, begin a new project of offering commentary specifically related to the Bible as it was read in the synagogue setting.47 In fact, they begin a trend that is continued by many of the midrashim that follow, such as the Tanhuma midrashim, which also organizes its commentary based on the synagogal parshiyyot. This trend is significant because it appears at the same time as the “great age of synagogue construction” in Jewish Palestine.48 Beginning in the late fourth to sixth centuries, synagogues appear in great numbers in all Jewish settlements. Some archaeologists have put the number as high as 100–120 for Palestine.49 Archaeological remains from these synagogues also indicate the centrality of Torah scrolls as a physical presence, having their own sacred zone within the synagogue construction. We also know from John Chrysostom’s sermons that at least some of his congregants viewed the synagogue with sanctity because of the Torah scrolls housed in it.50 PRK and LR and their descendants seem perfectly adapted to these new preoccupations with synagogue and Torah. By creating a commentary suited to Torah reading within the synagogue they make rabbinic learning accessible; they create a bridge from rabbinic scholarship to the broader Jewish synagogal world. I do not wish to exaggerate my claim. The synagogue is known to have been a non-rabbinic institution. Its figural and pagan mosaics and its heavy use of the Greek language as well as the scanty references among its epigraphs to rabbis all indicate that those who inhabited the synagogue world were chiefly not rabbis. Nonetheless, the rabbis’ creation of a new type of literature associated with the synagogal practice of Torah reading

47 There is some debate over how Genesis Rabbah was organized. According to some, such as Heinemann, Genesis Rabbah, too, was organized based on the reading cycle. Others disagree. See Strack and Stemberger, 277–278 for a summary of the debate. 48 Schwartz, Imperialism, 195. 49 Schwartz, Imperialism, 208. 50 John Chyrsostom, “Against the Jews, Oration 1,” in John Chyrsostom (ed. and trans. Wendy Mayer and Pauline Allen; London and New York: Routledge, 2000), 153–155.

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implies that there was at least an attempt to create a bridge from the rabbinic to the non-rabbinic world. One final suggestion of connection concerns the zodiac symbol found in numerous synagogue mosaics, most famously that of Hammat Tiberias. Whatever else this symbol implies with all its pagan references, it clearly indicates a preoccupation with the calendar cycle. As Lee Levine has suggested, the zodiac symbol may be related to the publication of the Jewish calendar which seems to have occurred in the late fourth century, an innovation replacing the previous method of ad hoc calendrical messengers.51 If Levine is correct about this innovation as well as about its connection to the zodiac symbol, then PRK is a product of its time in a still further way; PRK’s commentary is based on the readings for the special days of the year, the holidays and special shabbatot which mark the calendar, Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur, Shabbat Hanukkah and Shabbat Zachor. As noted earlier, Jacob Neusner has gone so far as to say that PRK is properly understood not as a commentary on the biblical text, but as a commentary on the calendar. Organizing a text around the calendar year again creates a bridge to contemporary Jewish concerns, in this case, to the preoccupation with the calendar evidenced by the nonrabbinic image of the synagogue zodiac. PRK’s new themes of intimacy and indulgence may also be correlated to certain historical trends. The following chapter will compare the rhetoric of late antique Christian discourse to that of PRK, but here I want to consider the ways in which some of the social and institutional changes noted above may have influenced the choice of these themes. Beginning with indulgence, we have already noted a connection between the halakhic leniencies of the third century and PRK’s rhetorical leniencies regarding issues such as commandment, sin and punishment. This attempt to make Judaism seem attractive by claiming that its practices are not as difficult to observe as one might think makes sense as a response to a world in which the Christian version of Judaism, which indeed did not require the full observance of Mosaic commandments, was rapidly winning adherents. Furthermore, the general tone of indulgence may also have been influenced by the increase in anti-Jewish rhetoric with the growth of Christianity. As John Gager has shown, neither pagans nor early Christians had

51 Lee I. Levine, “Contextualizing Jewish Art: The Synagogues at Hammat Tiberias and Sepphoris,” in Jewish Culture and Society, 110–115.

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“a consistently negative understanding of Judaism,” but on the contrary, at least for the pagans, the negative often went along with a great deal of respect for Jewish practices.52 What shifted beginning in the second and third centuries, according to Gager, is that the hostility contained in earlier (Pauline) texts intended to be used as part of an intra-Christian dialogue were now understood in relation to Jews. And as Christianity grew and increasingly distanced itself from its origins in Judaism, hostility grew. John Chrysostom rails against Jews in his sermons because he sees some of his Christian congregants are still attracted to Jewish synagogues and practices.53 Chrysostom wants to make the demarcation clear.54 With Christian imperial power, such negative attitudes increasingly became a part of Roman imperial rhetoric and law as well, as has been noted above. For the Jews, this increasing hostility must have come together with another further cause for dismay; Christians, who a century before had themselves been persecuted by the state, were now empowered by it, and Jews were left alone in their outsider, persecuted status.55 Understood in this context, PRK’s rhetoric of indulgence is a lone voice of comfort in a world of increasing hostility. In the face of such criticism and hostility, the response in PRK is one of defensiveness and praise. There is no need for the rabbis to criticize, as criticism comes frequently from the outside. This understanding of the psychological dynamic that caused the creation of such an indulgent streak in PRK is of course highly speculative. What lends it support is that the PRK texts themselves hint at such a dynamic. Thus for instance, in 9.5, three examples are given in which God begins with an intention to rebuke Israel, but changes His mind, according to the text, because He saw that “the nations of the world rejoiced.” Their joy at the thought of God’s anger with Israel leads God to “sport with His children” indulgently instead. Similarly, in 9.7, God decides to demonstrate Israel’s innocence in relation to the Golden calf (!) because of the nations of the world. “Since the nations of the world were making fun of Israel, saying to them: You made the Golden Calf,

52

John G. Gager, The Origins of Anti-Semitism: Attitudes Toward Judaism in Pagan and Christian Antiquity (New York: Oxford University Press, 1983), 268. On pagan attitudes toward Jews and Judaism, see also Peter Schäfer, Judeophobia: Attitudes Toward the Jews in the Ancient World (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1997). 53 See “Against the Jews, Oration 1.” 54 On Chrysostom’s negative rhetoric and how it fits classical rhetoric, see Robert L. Wilken, John Chrysostom and the Jews: Rhetoric and Reality in the Late Fourth Century (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983). 55 This insight comes from a comment made by Martha Himmelfarb as a response to David Satran’s “Eros, Magic and Conversion” paper, Princeton University, May 2006.

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the Holy One blessed be He investigated the matter and did not find any substance to it.” He then publicized this finding by making the “ox” the head of the sacrifices. Again, the motive for forgiveness and official pardon is the attack of the nations of the world. Since they attack, God (and the rabbis who orchestrate His performance) defend. In 11.6, God is also shown defending His people against accusations, and again, His loud defense is specifically accounted for as a result of the mocking of the nations of the world, lefi shehayu umot ha’olam monim leyisra’el. 12.3’s sick child in need of special rest and indulgent care, Israel, is sick because of “the slavery of mortar and bricks.” In a rare mention of the contemporary world, the present Israel is also understood as sick and in need of special care at least partly because of the oppression of the Empires. What these texts express is a feeling of pity and defensiveness in relation to Israel, a sense that they get enough criticism from the outside, so that what they need from the inside is a little care and indulgence. As for the development of a personal, intimate language in PRK, here, too, we find connections to the changes taking place in the Christian Roman world. Peter Brown describes the changes of late antiquity as beginning with a sense of anxiety about the old world, the old gods and their pagan institutions, and a sense that these were no longer a perfect match for the inner life of a person. Part of what brought on this sense of restlessness and unease was the new cosmopolitan world that the Roman Empire created. People from all parts of the Empire participated in one culture and could travel freely from one place to another. With the universal grant of citizenship by Caracalla in 212 and the growing fluidity and openness within the traditional hierarchy, there came a sense of new freedoms, but also of new anxieties about one’s place in such a changing universe. As “citizens of the world,” there was a “yearning for intimacy in a bottomless universe.”56 There was a need for “a God with whom one could be alone, a God whose ‘charge’, had remained concentrated and personal rather than diffused in benign but profoundly impersonal ministrations to the universe at large.”57 Brown points out that one of the striking features of the art of the period is the concentration on the eyes, “as they flash out at us.”58 The focus is on the inner personal world of the individual. The rise of the holy man should be understood as part of the same

56 57 58

Brown, The World of Late Antiquity, 77. Brown, The World of Late Antiquity, 51–52. Brown, The World of Late Antiquity, 74.

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phenomenon; it is a response to the need for personal religious contact, for the development of sacred personal relationships to ground this growing sense of loneliness and unease in a too-large Empire.59 PRK, like Christianity, offers such an escape from the impersonal world of the Roman Empire through its depiction of a personal, intimate God who speaks directly and lovingly to the people of Israel, calling them “My children,” and addressing their most intimate emotional concerns. Intimacy is exactly what He offers His wife when He tries to entice her back home after a fight (1.1). Conclusion In this chapter, we have considered the historical backdrop against which the authors and redactors of PRK did their work, the ways in which this period of great change may have influenced PRK’s form and shape. We started with a simple consideration of the literary pressures and trajectories implied by rabbinic literary history, and moved on to a consideration of the ways in which PRK fits into the larger historical movement of rabbinic Judaism outward, toward the people, during this period. Finally, we looked at larger trends in Roman Christian society, noting the general mood of change in the air, as well as the new sense of openness and populism, the increasing sense of fixity of religious borders, the mounting hostility toward Jews, and the search for a personal God. PRK participated and reacted to many of these trends, creating its own more populist and personal religious discourse and defending its people against attack. This chapter limited itself to PRK’s social and institutional context. The following one will focus on its rhetorical context, considering the relationship between PRK and contemporary Christian homiletical rhetoric. Also, while this chapter focused on the ways in which PRK can be seen as a product of its environment, the next one will consider also the ways in which it shaped its own unique response to this environment and created a distinctly Jewish and rabbinic late antique language.

59 Peter Brown, “The Rise and Function of the Holy Man in Late Antiquity” in Society and the Holy in Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982), 103–152. This article was originally published in Journal of Roman Studies 61 (1971):80–101. Brown later revised some of the arguments he made in that article in “The Rise and Function of the Holy Man, 1971–1997,” JECS 6 (1998):353–376.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE RHETORICAL CONTEXT: CONTEMPORARY CHRISTIAN HOMILY In the previous chapter we explored the historical and institutional context of PRK, considering the ways in which PRK may be understood as a reaction to some of the momentous changes taking place in the Roman Christian world of its time. In this chapter, we will explore the rhetorical side of that world, looking at PRK’s language in the context of the development of the newly empowered religious language of Christianity. There was a burgeoning of great oratory in the Church of the fourth and fifth centuries throughout the Roman Empire, and it is this oratory that will serve as the basis of comparison for the rhetoric of the roughly contemporary PRK. Preachers such as John Chrysostom, Augustine, Severian of Gabala and the three Cappadocians—Basil of Caesarea, Gregory of Nyssa and Gregory of Nazinus, all thrived during this period, as part of the end of a revival of classical rhetoric known as the Second Sophistic.1 These preachers generally came to the Church with years of the elite classical education of the pagan schools of rhetoric. The combination of the elaborate literary techniques of classical rhetoric and the simple passionate message of the Christian gospel produced a new powerful and extremely popular type of rhetoric.2 The focus of the comparisons below will be on the sermons of John Chrysostom as a representative preacher of the fourth and fifth centuries in the East, as he is one of the most well known and proliferate of these preachers. The study below will point to similarities in theme and style between this Christian preaching and the PRK midrashim, suggesting certain shared cultural developments in late antique religious language and sensibilities. PRK’s concerns with intimacy, humility, and broad accessibility as well as

1 The Second Sophistic, which extends from the beginning of the second century C.E. to the end of the fourth century, is second in relation to the blossoming of rhetoric in the classical period during the fifth and fourth centuries B.C.E. The Second Sophistic was a time of great literary excitement, when good rhetoric was highly prized and money was spent on libraries and gymnasia, and literary activity generally flourished. See Robert Wilken, John Chrysostom and the Jews, 95–96. 2 Auerbach, “Sermo Humilis.”

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its new emphasis on emotional persuasive techniques are all found in the Christian texts of this period. As we will see below, there, too, we find a striking emphasis on personal dialogue and simple, direct speech aimed at the heart. While many of these themes and techniques can already be found in the earliest Christian literature from the first and second centuries, it was not till the fourth and fifth centuries that these new preachers turned such personal and simple language into the persuasive power of an imperial rhetoric. The similarities point to a shared culture, but there are also significant differences. These differences help shed light on the ways in which each group developed its own distinct religious identity, a process which is considered one of the hallmarks of late antiquity, the increasing separation and distinctiveness of Christianity and Judaism. As Schwartz writes, the Christianization of the Empire produced a rejudaization among Jews, as they sought to define themselves as a religiously distinct entity.3 Differences in attitudes toward indulgence and asceticism, as well as to one’s relationship to the political world and to biblical exegesis, for example, will be considered below as signposts of this separation. Such distinctions are also important in reminding us to think not so much in terms of influence but in terms of appropriation and subversion, terms that imply a greater degree of agency.4 Both the similarities and the differences will help us address a further issue which emerges in this study of late antique rhetoric, the question of power and the attempt to win it through the use of such persuasive means. Scholarship on the rise of Christianity has of late come to emphasize the role which rhetoric played in that process.5 This study of the rhetoric of PRK has been modeled on this insight, making connections between its new intimate, indulgent rhetoric and the beginning of the rabbinic rise to power. The similarities between contemporary Christian preaching and PRK’s rhetoric to be drawn in this chapter, then, imply not just a shared language, but also a shared notion of how to win followers, as both groups use their rhetoric for similar persuasive, expansionist purposes. As Hayim Lapin has illustrated, the question of rabbinic power and hegemony relates to both the inner group dynamics between rabbinic

3 Schwartz, Imperialism. See also Lapin, “Hegemony and Its Discontents” in Jewish Culture and Society. 4 Seth Schwartz and Richard Kalmin, “Introduction,” Jewish Culture and Society, 3. 5 See especially Brown, Power and Persuasion, and Cameron, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire.

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leaders/rulers and their non-rabbinic followers/subjects as well as to the intra-group dynamics between the Jews as a whole and their Christian and Roman rulers.6 While the similar use of a personal and down-to-earth rhetoric in Christian and rabbinic circles may be understood as a similar attempt by each elite to win influence over their masses, some of the differences between the two groups’ rhetorics will point in the other direction, to the discrepancy of power between rabbis and Christian leaders, as well as between Jews as a whole and Christians in the late antique Roman world. How this power discrepancy made itself felt in each group’s unique style of preaching will be one of the key questions addressed here. Similarities Intimacy In the last chapter, we noted how certain changes, such as the creation of a Roman empire with an extremely cosmopolitan feel, gave rise to the need for a religion with more personal, intimate appeal. The new language of Christianity met this need. Here is how Auerbach describes Augustine’s (354–430 C.E.) speech: Augustine recommended the academic forms of pagan eloquence and even made use of them, but what really strikes us and leaves a lasting impression in his sermons is the directness with which, setting aside all barriers between style levels, they speak to each individual soul . . . The tone is so personal and animated . . . The furious urgency of his appeal, in which all theory seems forgotten, the direct appeal to the reader, whoever he may be—all these shatter every barrier between you and me.7

The sense of an intimacy which comes from the shattering of previously erected barriers is reminiscent of PRK 12.11, with its image of a God, who, at the giving of the Torah at Sinai, breaks down the previous barriers erected between God and humanity. As we will see, Christianity developed a new language of intimacy, which, like the intimacy of PRK’s rhetoric, was intended to break down all barriers in its urgent quest for direct, personal connection. John Chrysostom’s (349–407 C.E.) sermons are built on the assumption of a very close relationship between himself and his audience. Upon

6 7

Lapin, “Hegemony and Its Discontents,” in Jewish Culture and Society. Auerbach, “Sermo Humilis,” 53–56.

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returning from a journey, Chrysostom describes his feelings toward his congregation as follows: I took part in a sea voyage; yet at sea your love made the waters calm. I didn’t board a boat without you, I didn’t disembark for overnight lodgings without you, I didn’t enter a city or a church without you. Instead, even though I was separated from you in body, I was bound close to you in love. I would enter a church, I would stand beside the altar and all the while I would be thinking of your church.8

This passage is typical of Chrysostom and of other preachers of his time; the power of his discourse is in its emotive, personal quality, its constant appeal to the heart and to the intimate relationship between himself and his audience. In another sermon he begins similarly with a declaration, that after being away for just one day, “I ended up so distressed and beside myself that it was like being separated from you for a whole year,” and then concludes, “In future let’s ask God of Paul and Peter, who bound them fast to each other with the bonds of mutuality of purpose, to bind us tightly too into a more burning love for each other.”9 In the context of such a burning language of love and intimacy, PRK’s intimate God makes some cultural sense. In the past He could accept sacrifices from afar, but in the present there was a need for a God who could come down to earth and speak personally and directly to His “children.” Chrysostom often uses the metaphor of an intimate familial relationship to express his feelings toward his audience. As he says: I’ve introduced such a powerful statement into my prayer only because I desire your progress. I strive for this with regard to you all, because I love you, because I hold you close, because you are everything to me—both father and mother, and brothers and children.10

Indeed, Chrysostom uses a number of different personal relationship metaphors in different sermons, at one point comparing his relationship to his audience to that of a husband and wife, and in another case comparing the audience to his child, and himself, to the child’s mother. Perhaps the most striking comparison is the opposite one, in which he is the child and the audience, the mother:

8

Chrysostom, “On His Return” (Mayer and Allen, 102–103). Chrysostom, “On: ‘I Opposed Him to His Face’ (Gal. 2:11)” (Mayer and Allen, 141–142). 10 Chrysostom, “On the Acts of the Apostles, Homily 3” (Mayer and Allen, 183). 9

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When a child at the breast is torn away from the mother’s nipple, it keeps turning around, looking around for its mother no matter where it’s taken off to. So too when I was taken quite far away from my mother’s lap, I kept looking around me, searching everywhere for your holy assembly.11

Here there is a sense of physical intimacy reminiscent of certain PRK images like that of Israel as God’s undershirt or as His daughter whom He wishes to see only in a private chamber. Indeed, in PRK, too, we found such frequent comparisons to intimate relationships in the form of the mashal. PRK 1.3 has God make a similar statement to Chrysostom’s assertion that his audience is “everything” to him, father and mother as well as brother and children; in 1.3, God compares His relationship to Israel to a number of different relationships at once, to that of a daughter, a sister as well as a mother. Other meshalim use the husband-wife or the parent-child relationship as the basic metaphor underlying their narrative, and, as we have seen, such metaphors are frequent. Leaving aside the difference between Chrysostom’s interest in his own relationship, and PRK’s interest in God’s relationships, there is a similarity of interest in the personal, private sphere. The private sphere plays a strikingly strong part in many of the midrashim we have seen, especially those on the stories of Sinai and the dedication of the tabernacle; both of these narratives are extremely public in their biblical accounts but are transformed in PRK into private stories of courtship and marriage. The general use of the Song of Songs in such midrashim also adds a feeling of great intimacy and personal relationship, a feeling that would be far less palpable had the midrash constrained itself to the Pentateuchal words alone. One of the hallmarks of Christianity during this period is precisely this interest in the private sphere. Peter Brown writes of how the Church took over certain aspects of life that had previously been considered extremely private, like the burial and remembering of the dead, and sexuality.12 The previously private issue of sexual mores was now considered a topic for discussion and approval within the Church. The existence of a new celibate clergy was a mark of this changing attitude to the privacy of sexuality

11

Chrysostom, “On: ‘I Opposed Him to His Face’ (Gal. 2:11)” (Mayer and Allen,

141). 12 Peter Brown, “Late Antiquity” in A History of Private Life: From Pagan Rome to Byzantium (ed. Paul Veyne; Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of the Harvard University Press, 1987), 282.

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as Christian leaders created a new public space within their own bodies through the renunciation of their own private sexual desires. Indeed, Chrysostom’s comparisons of his relationship to his audience to those of private familial relationships may stem in part from this renunciation of his own personal intimacies. Cameron also points to the importance of the private sphere in literary works like the Lives, where women, “classic dwellers of the private sphere,” play a large role. “Christianity, with its emphasis on the inner person, the spiritual rather than the external, brought the private sphere to the fore.”13 The public arena was also suffused with a feeling of private, personal, intimate connection through the preacher’s habit of speaking directly and intimately, and rather informally to his audience. In chapter 3, we explored in great detail PRK’s use of the amar hakadosh barukh hu statement. In these frequent speeches, the Holy One blessed be He addresses His audience in a personal, intimate, and surprisingly informal ad-hoc voice. While the content of these speeches is not particularly similar to that of the Christian preachers, the level and tone are. The midrashic statement often begins with a term of endearment like “My children” or simply with the calling of the listener’s name, “Moses, this is how it should be.” Everything is personal and relational; there is an “I” and a “you” in almost every statement, and many simple beseeching rhetorical questions, as well the use of informal terms such as hayekha, “I swear by your life.” The contrast to God’s formal speech of parallelism and poetry in the Prophets is striking. The Christian preachers sound similarly direct and intimate and informal. Auerbach speaks about the “directness with which, setting aside all barriers between style levels,” their sermons “speak to each individual soul,” and about the frequent colloquialisms which enter their rhetoric.14 We have already seen above some examples of how Chrysostom addresses his audience with intimate loving words. He, too, makes frequent use of terms of endearment, such as “beloved,” “my brothers” and “fellow.” Indeed, terms of endearment are found frequently in most homilies of the period; Gregory of Nyssa calls his audience “my fellow poor” and Augustine, “my brothers.”15 These terms of endearment lend the speech an atmosphere of

13

Cameron, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire, 149. Auerbach, “Sermo Humilis,” 53. 15 For some examples of Augustine’s sermons, see Selected Sermons of St. Augustine (trans. and ed. Quincy Howe, Jr.; New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1966) and Augustine: Later Works (trans. and ed. John Burnaby; Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1980). On 14

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direct address, personal connection and informality. They are used as part of direct statements that often feel ad-hoc and conversational: “Don’t bear a grudge, fellow!” and “Beloved, don’t be hesitant about the grace.”16 The conversational tone of many of these Christian preachers’ statements is often more than a tone; not infrequently the monologue becomes a dialogue, albeit a fictitious one. The preacher will feign a dialogue by citing a supposed interjector or objector from the crowd and then responding to him personally. Thus, for instance, in a sermon against the circus and the hippodrome, Chrysostom creates the following dialogue: “Did you see the fruit of the hippodrome? ‘And what’s that got to do with us who sit up high?’ someone asks. It’s got to do with you most of all.”17 Another example of this technique is the following piece of an Augustine sermon: “But you are going to say to me, ‘I cannot love Him. How am I to love Him whom I cannot see?’ I shall now show you how you can gaze upon that which eyes cannot see.”18 Severian of Gabala, who preached in the end of the fourth and beginning of the fifth centuries, was also known for such dialogues, sometimes with audience objectors and sometimes with God. In one sermon, he preached the importance of giving clothing to the poor, and then cited the following interjection: “This, (the interjector) says, I know—naturally I know it. I have already heard this. You have not been the first to teach me . . .” Severian then responds: “I know that you already know this and similar things . . .”19 Proclus, a popular preacher in Constantinople in the fifth century, was also known for his fictitious dialogues, sometimes between biblical characters and sometimes between himself and contemporaries, such as the Jews.20 The effect of this fictitious dialogue form is to make the audience feel included in a personal dialogue, even while the preacher retains complete control over his monologue. The sense conveyed is one of responsiveness, connection and relationship through the creation of a figment of dialogue.

Gregory of Nyssa, see Meredith S. J. Anthony, “The Three Cappadocians on Beneficence” in Preacher and Audience, 96–101. 16 Chrysostom, “On Eutropius” (Mayer and Allen, 136), and Chrysostom, “On His Return” (Mayer and Allen, 102). 17 Chrysostom, “On: ‘My Father’s Working Still’ ( John 5:17)” (Mayer and Allen, 145). 18 Augustine, Selected Sermons, 12. 19 Uthemann, “Forms of Communication,” 159. 20 Jan H. Barkhuizen, “Proclus of Constantinople: A Popular Preacher in Fifth-Century Constantinople” in Preacher and Audience, 179–200.

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As Uthemann writes, the preachers “create the impression that they are involved in a discussion with each individual.”21 Both Auerbach and Uthemann point to the origins of this form in the diatribe of the classical schools of rhetoric, especially as used by the Cynic-Stoic philosophers.22 Whatever its origin, the form showed a real blossoming in the Christian sermons of the fourth and fifth centuries, and, according to Pauline Allen, continued to be used well into the sixth century as well.23 In our study of PRK’s forms in chapter 3, we encountered a dialogue form as well, in this case a dialogue between biblical characters, usually God, Moses and Israel. The dialogues examined there are similar in certain respects to those employed by Christian preachers of the same period. They generally begin with a statement made by an authoritative figure, usually God or Moses. There then follows an “objection” to this statement, usually some worry or concern made by the people of Israel, and then a response to this objection by the authoritative figure. Thus, for instance, in PRK 5.7, when Moses informs the people they are about to be redeemed, they respond with numerous anxious objections about the impossibility of their redemption; the proper number of years has not yet elapsed and they are still ensconced in sin. Each of these objections is countered by Moses in simple direct dialogue form. “They said to him: Our rabbi, Moses, how can we be redeemed? Did not the Holy One blessed be He say to Abraham . . . He (Moses) said to them: Since He is desirous of your redemption, He is not looking at your calculations . . .” The effect of these frequent dialogues in PRK is, as in the Christian sermons, the creation of a sense of connection and relationship and the creation of an image of a responsive leadership. While there may be important differences between the midrashic and the Christian dialogues, they share the intimate spirit of the times, both offering their audiences a religious experience based on personal relationship. 21

Uthemann, “Forms of Communication,” 143. Auerbach, “Sermo Humilis,” 31. Uthemann, “Forms of Communication,” 151. Uthemann also considers the possibility that the path of transmission to early Christianity may have been through Hellenistic Jewish writers like Philo, who also used some form of the diatribe. In the end, he finds that the evidence has not yet been accumulated to support such a possibility. This line of thinking opens up the possibility that the rabbis of our midrashim were influenced not by contemporary Christian preachers but by earlier Hellenistic Jewish writers. There are also precedents for this type of dialogue form in both the Hebrew prophets and the Christian Scriptures, especially the Pauline letters. 23 Pauline Allen, “The Sixth-Century Greek Homily: A Re-assessment” in Preacher and Audience, 214. 22

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Humility Christian and rabbinic preachers share another important cultural value, as well, the value of humility and lowliness. In relation to God, we have seen in chapter 4 how PRK creates an image of a god who acts in a humble, often servile way. In a number of passages, including PRK 1.1 and 12.11, God is described as descending to earth to have contact with humanity. In other passages, he takes on the role of the servant, standing up to serve Abraham and doing all those things for Israel in the desert that a student, in the servant role, normally does for his master. These images of God as one who descends to earth in a humble way are hints of a shared cultural interest in what, for Christianity, is a full-blown theology of the lowly based on the notion of Jesus’ incarnation. Everything about Jesus was considered lowly, his descent to earth to become human, his birth in a manger to humble working people, and his suffering and death on the cross. As Phil. 2:7ff says: “But [Jesus] emptied himself, taking the form of a servant, being made in the likeness of man: and was found in fashion as a man. He humbled himself, and became obedient unto death, even death on the cross.” Auerbach describes the Christian preoccupation with the notion of humility in his essay on sermo humilis. As he writes, “humilis became the most important adjective characterizing the Incarnation; in all Christian literature written in Latin it came to express the atmosphere and level of Christ’s life and suffering.”24 Auerbach explains that the term humilis had hitherto been fairly pejorative, referring to the lowly and the base or the degraded, both physically and morally. In Christian usage, the term gradually took on a positive aura, giving dignity and importance to the lowly and the humble. The rise of the worship of Mary, the mother of God, in the fifth and sixth centuries demonstrates a renewed preoccupation with the issue of Jesus’ physical humanity in this era, as do the Christological debates over Jesus’ corporeality and corporeal resurrection.25 While the midrashic version is far less extreme, its tendency, within its own cultural limits, to adopt and appropriate such a humble, earth-bound image of God seems a significant sign of shared cultural sensibilities. Auerbach writes about humilis as extending to style level as well as theology. What is new about Christian preachers like Augustine, according to Auerbach, is that they use the lowest, simplest didactic level to 24 25

Auerbach, “Sermo Humilis,” 40. Brown, Power and Persuasion, 155.

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speak about the most sublime matters of religion, whereas according to the rule of classical rhetoric, style and subject matter were supposed to be commensurate. The point, says Augustine in On Christian Doctrine, of such Christian usage of the lowest style is to make the Christian message accessible to all. A certain amount of vulgar, colloquial speech is allowed in Church language because the primary purpose is effective teaching.26 Christian and rabbinic rhetoric share this concern with accessibility and inclusiveness in their style, with the creation of a rhetoric that is capable of speaking to a wide popular audience. PRK’s language has a colloquial feel to it, especially the language ascribed to God, which, as noted earlier, lacks the weightiness and solemnity of prophetic divine discourse. PRK, like most amoraic Palestinian texts, contains a great deal of Aramaic. While we cannot be sure of the spoken language of the people, there is some evidence to support the notion that Aramaic implies a less solemn, more informal context than Hebrew.27 Moreover, PRK’s language is characterized by greater accessibility than its earlier forebears simply because of the absence of the type of technical language we find in the tannaitic midrashim. Certain features of PRK make it seem like a discourse which was meant to serve as a kind of bridge between the academic world of the rabbis and the larger popular religious world of the synagogue: its more thematically-oriented petihta form (with its focus on the synagogue-read parashah), the inclusive and colloquial forms of direct speech and dialogue, as well as its generally less precise exegesis. Like the Christian preachers of the same period, PRK’s rabbis are in some ways engaged in the writing of a new more “humble” and accessible discourse. As part of its movement toward greater accessibility, Christian rhetoric of this period actively devalues the need for an elite classical education. While most of its preachers make strong use of their own classical education, they argue that it is unimportant; the road to truth may now be accessed through faith alone, thereby circumventing the traditional route of education. Cameron points to the fourth-century Greek Life of Antony as articulating this notion, painting Antony as an uneducated hermit who lives in the Egyptian desert and shuns schooling along with rich food, and achieves greatness through faith alone.28

26 27 28

See Auerbach’s discussion of Augustine, “Sermo Humilis,” 33–39. See Margoliot, “Hebrew and Aramaic.” Cameron, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire, 113.

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With their commitment to Torah study, it is difficult to imagine the rabbis ever articulating such a complete rejection of schooling. On the other hand, in PRK, we find a thread of this idea. 12.3 tells a story of a sick boy whose pedagogue tells him to go back to school right away, but whose father (God) insists he should indulge a little longer and recuperate at home. The midrash’s adoption of the anti-scholastic opinion, even if only on a temporary basis, is a bit surprising, as noted in our earlier analysis of this text. When placed in the context of a prevailing anti-scholastic attitude in the culture at large, as expressed in the Christian texts, the midrash makes a bit more sense. Education is not the top value of the era. For the rabbis, of course, Torah study still remains the ultimate goal and there is no other alternative route such as faith suggested. Nonetheless, a similar anti-intellectual sentiment is apparent. Both groups do not only preach, or sometimes preach, anti-scholasticism; they also embody it, as their own style moves increasingly away from the purely rational, logical, intellectual argument to include more emotional arguments that are meant to appeal to the heart and soul as well as the head. Auerbach writes that one of the features that distinguished Christian preaching from earlier pagan rhetoric was that it had “far more emotion” and “a soul-stirring quality.”29 Cameron suggests that it was partly the new emotional appeal of Christian discourse that gave it such broad appeal. Christianity was built on the emotional theme of love, of caritas; even the obsession with abstinence speaks to this great interest in the love theme, suggests Cameron. The writing of the Christian Lives in the fourth century epitomizes this trend as they are written as an “appeal to the heart.”30 Joseph Soldati writes of the changes wrought in late antique religious language as “a gradual movement from religious expression as and within an intellectual system towards religious expression that is less intellectual and more purely metaphorical.”31 He suggests that there is a new way of knowing in late antiquity, a knowledge that comes from revelatory insight rather than logical argument. The shift from tannaitic to amoraic midrash can be described in similar terms, as a movement away from the purely intellectual toward the inclusion of the emotional, although here there is no claim to a new

29

Auerbach, “Sermo Humilis,” 53. Cameron, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire, 143. 31 Joseph A. Soldati, “Talking Like Gods: New Voices of Authority” in Pagan and Christian Anxiety: a Response to E.R. Dodds (Lanham, Md.: University Press of America, 1984), 178. See Cameron’s discussion of Soldati, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire, 181. 30

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knowledge stemming from revelation. As we saw in chapters 5 and 6, tannaitic midrash tends to be more intellectually rigorous and amoraic midrash more personal and emotional. The development of the petihta in the amoraic period aided in this endeavor as it allowed preachers the freedom to use the emotional tones of the Prophets and the Writings as the basis of their discourse. The use of direct speech from God also betrays a new appeal to the heart, as does the movement away from the purely rational tannaitic homily of the qal vahomer. Differences Humility Although in some places in PRK God’s descent to earth is depicted as something new, elsewhere it is argued that such divine descent is as old as the world itself. Indeed in the same midrash, PRK 1.1, both points are made, one after the other. The second point seems to be a kind of polemic against precisely the Christian connection being made in this chapter. The midrash asserts: “The essence of the divine presence was originally in the lower world.” In other words, while Christians claim that Jesus’ incarnation is a new thing on this earth, the claim here is that God was originally on earth to begin with. This claim relates to the rabbis’ general approach to history, encapsulated in the Ecclesiastes verse chosen as a petihta verse for PRK 9.4, “What is occurring occurred long since, and what is to occur occurred long since” (Ecc 3:15). PRK has an interest in novelty and change, an interest that has been emphasized in this book, but that interest is also tempered by the traditional notion of stability and the great traditional value placed on the past as opposed to the present or the future. I will return to this point later in this chapter. There is, then, a difference between Christian and rabbinic notions concerning the timing of God’s humble descent to earth. There is also a difference in the very notion of divine (and human) humility itself. In late antique Christian rhetoric, humility was not spoken of on its own but in association with its opposite, exaltation. As Auerbach puts it, “the humility of the Incarnation derives its full force from the contrast with Christ’s divine nature: man and God, lowly and sublime, humilis et sublimes.”32 Auerbach cites Augustine on this point in a long passage on 32

Auerbach, “Sermo Humilis,” 41.

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the humbling of Christ, “He who stood before the judge, he who was struck in the face, he who scourged, he who was spat upon . . . the same is risen.”33 Chrysostom expresses a similar sense of the inextricable connection between the two ideas: “It did Christ no harm at all to descend into the deeper regions of the earth, nor did it prevent him from becoming higher than the heavens. That’s because the more one is humbled, the more one is exalted.”34 While this connection was certainly present in Christianity’s earliest rhetoric, it took on new significance and meaning in the third and fourth centuries as Christianity began to acquire political power in the Empire. As Cameron describes it, during this period, Christians ceased preaching revolution, and instead began to turn to a rhetoric that was more compatible with imperial power.35 This new rhetoric also valued the humble, but the call was no longer the revolutionary call for the humble to inherit the earth, and take over positions of power, but rather a condescending call to help the poor in their humbled state by aiding them with food and clothing. Thus it was during this era that the bishops came to be known as “lovers of the poor.”36 On the side of exaltation, too, there was a shift, as the Christian emperor took on an increasingly exalted status, until he became a godlike autocrat, Jesus’ representative on earth. With respect to such leaders, there developed in the fifth century, according to Peter Brown, instead of humility, the notion of sunkatabasis, condescension. The emperor, like Jesus, was understood on the one hand to have god-like absolute power, and on the other hand, to be obliged to lower himself to show compassion for his fellow humans very much as Jesus had stooped to join humanity through the Incarnation. This act of condescension implied not only an obligation to be merciful but also a great distance between the powerful and the supplicant. Brown writes of the emperor: All classes were equal under him, as recipients of a compassion modeled on the overpowering position of the rich man in relation to the abject poor . . . 37 The emperor was to show sunkatabasis, condescension, to his subjects, as

33

Auerbach, “Sermo Humilis,” 42. Chrysostom, “On Ephesians Homily 11” (Mayer and Allen, 63). 35 Cameron, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire, 130. 36 Brown, Power and Persuasion, 89ff. 37 Brown contrasts this attitude of the new Christian emperors to their pagan predecessors who had adhered to the cultural notion that they were obliged “to show praotes, gentle courtesy, to a select group of men of paideia, as natural leaders of the community.” Brown, Power and Persuasion, 154. 34

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Brown points out that it is no accident that it is during this period that the Christological debates over Jesus’ corporeality and corporeal resurrection were most intense; with a godlike autocrat as emperor, it was important to figure out to what extent God had bent down to earth and bound himself to humanity, and therefore to what extent the emperor was obligated to do so. The Byzantine image of Mary the mother of God seated with the infant Jesus on her lap was popular partly because it expressed this understanding of God’s deep connection to humanity. The Christian preachers of this era were not seen in the same exalted state as the emperor, but they certainly shared some of his aura as well as some of his real political power. As we will see below, their rhetoric is tinged with the sense of confidence and security that comes from such an association with power. When they speak of humility, it is always of a humility that is inevitably crossed with a sense of exaltation, both with respect to Jesus and with respect to themselves, his representatives. The rhetoric of humility is in this respect very much like the rhetoric against elite rhetorical education; the preachers could afford to speak in this way precisely because they were neither truly humble nor truly without education, but were speaking from the mouth of such advantage a rhetoric of disadvantage. They spread the humble message of Christianity through the means of their rhetorical education, paideia, an education in the language of power.39 Their appropriation of all the techniques of classical pagan rhetoric is a sign of this new power, even as their message is one of humility. How do such notions compare to the humility in PRK’s midrashim? The rabbis of this era did not have access to real political power, except for the small amount granted to the patriarch, and this was for a limited time. Nor did they have real access to the language of power, classical rhetoric, notwithstanding the apparent contact between the rhetor Libanius and the family of the patriarch. As part of a conquered nation, they lived a dominated existence. Within their own scholar-disciple community, the rabbis were no doubt considered an elite group. Within the larger world of non-rabbinic Jews they were beginning to have some small amount of 38 39

Brown, Power and Persuasion, 154–155. See Brown, Power and Persuasion, especially chapter 2, “Paideia and Power.”

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authority during this period, but it was still very limited and tenuous. This great discrepancy in power between the rabbis and their Christian counterparts plays itself out in a number of areas of rhetoric, including the notions of humility and exaltation. First, there is little sense of exaltation in PRK’s discussion of God’s humility. God is shown willing to descend to earth to please His demanding wife, acting the gallant suitor in buying her sweets, and standing up to serve the people while they sit.40 He is humble, subservient, and forever accommodating. The emperor may demand that you stand in fear while his proclamation is read, but this God makes it easy for you, allowing you to lie down in your beds as you recite His proclamation. No doubt, a basic assumption of God’s grandeur underlies these depictions, but it seems significant that such aspects of God go without mention. The feeling is entirely of humility, without the balancing paradoxical aspect of exaltation that is so prominent in Christian writing on the subject. To be sure, the goal of this rabbinic rhetoric of humility, like that of Christianity, is to gain followers and authority; it is a persuasive technique, trying to win followers by showing how accommodating this rabbinic God can be. There is an attempt to cede power in the hopes of gaining authority; our God is not like the Roman emperor who rules by fear and power. This is the strategy of those who do not really have any power to cede in the first place. Beth Berkowitz finds the rabbis of the tannaitic period, who also had little real power, speaking a rhetoric in which they imagine their own power, creating, through the detailing of their own death penalty rituals, a world in which they would have the power and authority to enforce such practices.41 Here in the amoraic PRK the strategy seems to be the opposite; instead of fighting the situation, the rabbis lean in to it, embrace it, turning their humble situation into a point of attraction, the attraction of a religion built on accommodation and service, but also the attraction of a dignified humility. Instead of fighting their humble state, they turn it into a point of dignity; their God is above the petty scrabble of the emperor to make everyone show him fear; He has dignity without such outward shows. The late antique Christian rhetoric does not preach revolution because of its new association with political power, but the rhetoric of PRK does not really preach revolution either. The rabbis have not created here what

40 41

See chapter 4 for details. Berkowitz, Execution and Invention, especially 17–19 and 212.

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James Scott would call a “World Upside Down.”42 The humble are not taking over the world; God is dignifying the humble through His association with them, acting like them, serving and accommodating, rather than fighting and demanding power. This particular rabbinic rhetoric of humility emerges out of a context of rabbinic disempowerment both with respect to the Roman Christian world at large and the internal Jewish community. In both arenas the rabbis lack the kind of power that the Christian preachers are beginning to attain at this period. With respect to the larger Roman Christian world, the rabbinic disempowerment turns humility into dignity. With respect to the Jewish community, the rabbis seek to undo their disempowerment, and they try to accomplish this purpose through the rhetoric of a humble, accommodating, subservient God who represents their own attempts to beg their audiences to join them. Indulgence One of the areas in which the power differential between rabbinic and Christian preachers is most apparent is with respect to PRK’s rhetoric of indulgence. Unlike intimacy and humility, indulgence is the one basic theme of PRK for which we do not find a parallel in late antique Christian rhetoric. On the contrary, as we will see, Christian preachers of this period are preoccupied with issues of rebuke, judgment and asceticism. To review some of the findings of chapter 4, the theme of indulgence is all-pervasive in PRK. There is the indulgence of commandments which are shown to be easy (or at least easier than you thought) to observe, and the indulgence of a God who is constantly leaping over mountains of sins for the sake of forgiveness and for the sake of a public defense of His people’s innocence (even when everyone knows they are not innocent, as with the Golden Calf ). Even in their interpretation of the haftarot of the weeks of rebuke, we find signs of this indulgent streak, as the sins of Israel are forgiven and minimized (the debt is just barley and it’s already paid). One mashal’s switch of the role of God from the judge to the mother epitomizes the general movement in these midrashim away from judgment toward loving, intimate relationship (9.5).

42

Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance, 166–172.

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While PRK’s tone tends to be defensive, forgiving and comforting, the Christian preachers adopt a strikingly different tone, urging and beseeching their congregants to change and to improve, rebuking, challenging and correcting them. One of the most striking differences appears in the dialogue form shared by both. As noted in chapter 3, PRK’s dialogues tend to take the form of concern and response; after hearing a pronouncement by God or Moses, the audience reacts with some anxious concern, and then either God or Moses responds by comforting them and relieving their anxiety. Don’t worry; God will redeem you in spite of your sinfulness. No, it is not as hard as you imagined to make Me a sanctuary. Yes, redemption is coming this very month so you need not fret about waiting any longer. Chrysostom’s dialogues tend to take a different emotional path; Chrysostom makes a statement, often one of a rebuking or accusatory nature, and the people object, defending themselves or objecting to his ideas. He then corrects them, telling them that they are indeed guilty or that they have been thinking about things in the wrong way. In one sermon, Chrysostom says accusingly, “Did you see the fruit of the hippodrome? ‘And what’s that got to do with us who sit up high?’ someone asks. It’s got to do with you most of all.”43 In another sermon, he says, My comments are addressed to those who give themselves indiscriminately to those who are splitting the church . . . What do you claim? ‘It’s the same faith. They’re orthodox too.’ If that’s so, why aren’t they with us?44

After calling the events of the theater “evil,” Chrysostom cites an audience objector: “ ‘What evil?’ someone asks. I feel pain at this because, although you’re sick, you don’t know it, so that you could look for a doctor.”45 Chrysostom’s goal is to make the people feel uneasy, to shake up their complacency, whereas PRK’s goal is to alleviate some of the perpetual sense of anxiety present in Israel’s minds. Chrysostom even refers to his preaching as “our tongue which cuts, censures, strikes, makes suffer.”46 Different attitudes toward the metaphor of physical illness further illustrate these differences. Chrysostom considers sin an illness and himself the doctor who cures it through rebuke:

43 44 45 46

Chrysostom, “On: ‘My Father’s Working Still’ ( John 5:17)” (Mayer and Allen, 145). Chrysostom, “On Ephesians Homily 11” (Mayer and Allen, 68–69). Chrysostom, “Against the Games and Theatres” (Mayer and Allen, 121). Chrysostom, “On: ‘My Father’s Working Still’ ( John 5:17)” (Mayer and Allen, 144).

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chapter eight Since, then, you’ve been healed of this sickness, we have the greatest confidence in the matter of your love; if one address bit you in this way and made you so anxious that you were depressed and confused and shaken, it’s obvious that, if a second and a third are added, it will free you from every weakness.47

By contrast, when PRK uses the sickness metaphor in 12.3, the feeling is not one of rebuke but of sympathy and the response is not censure but indulgence; the sick child should stay home from school and be treated to special food and drink. For Chrysostom, the cure is his own rhetoric of rebuke, and for PRK, the cure is its own rhetoric of indulgence. Christian rhetoric is not without the notion of mercy. Indeed, one of the great preoccupations of the age is how to achieve imperial mercy or clemency for an act against the emperor. As both Cameron and Brown point out, there is a link between the ability to serve as the messenger who attains pardon from the emperor in such circumstances and real political power.48 One of the marks of the transition toward a Christian empire is that it was no longer the pagan philosopher who served this intercessory role, but Christian bishops. Here, also, as we saw above with respect to humility, the notion of mercy is one which implies great exaltation and power; it is only the most powerful emperor who can offer such pardon, and he does so in a condescending way, in the same manner that he stoops to hear the cry of the poor. This sense of mercy and pardon is not the everyday personal pardon of PRK’s God, who offers constant comforting messages and is always present to defend Israel. Another way in which the Christian message of this period stands in contrast to PRK’s notions of indulgence is in the Christian idealization of asceticism.49 This was the period of the great movement of holy men living outside of civilization waged in a war against all bodily appetites and desires. These holy men were considered models of piety and righteousness for all to admire and attempt to emulate in some way, in their own Christian attempt to conquer their physical bodies. Thus for instance Chrysostom urges his householders to give away their material wealth to the poor and to confine sexuality to the home and cease indulging in

47

Chrysostom, “On: ‘My Father’s Working Still’ ( John 5:17)” (Mayer and Allen, 144). Cameron, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire, 136. Brown, Power and Persuasion, 69–75. 49 See Boyarin’s discussion of these issues in his Carnal Israel. 48

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trips to the theater and circus.50 The midrashic notion of luxuriating and indulging in sweet treats (12.3 and 12.11) marks a striking contrast to this Christian asceticism. Indeed, Brown suggests that there is a specific rise in asceticism and a preoccupation with the final judgment beginning in the fourth century. What has changed is the perception of how to win salvation. Whereas in the earlier centuries of Christianity, merely to become Christian, to be an “initiate,” was considered enough, as Christianity spread, there was a sense of anxiety about how all these masses could possibly achieve salvation. The ascetic movement grew out of this anxiety as an attempt to distinguish oneself as worthy in the final judgment. Many of the most successful fourth century preachers, such as Chrysostom, Ambrose of Milan, Basil of Caesarea and Augustine came out of this ascetic movement and brought to their preaching a firm belief “that they would have to stand before Christ in the Last Judgment, to answer for the sins of the populations in their cities.”51 They therefore preached a rhetoric of admonishment, as we have seen above in Chrysostom’s words. PRK, by contrast, shows little concern for the Last Judgment, or for any judgment, portraying God as a forgiving reluctant judge who would rather turn a blind eye to sinners and playfully “sport” with his children instead. Such differences between a rhetoric of indulgence and one of rebuke may also be related to the differences in power discussed above. Christian preachers could afford to rebuke as they had imperial power behind them, whereas the rabbis adopted a tone of indulgence because they were in the humble position of begging people to follow them. Making demands involves a certain amount of power. The effects of this power differential on the preacher’s relationship to his audience are nicely illustrated in the contrast between the way PRK and Chrysostom each use the image of entering the doorway. Chrysostom, in a sermon condemning excesses of wealth, says: Look, I’m making a public statement, I’m no longer advising, but commanding and giving orders. Let the one who wants to, hear; let the one who doesn’t, disobey. If you continue to do this, I won’t put up with you, nor shall I accept you or allow you to cross this threshold.52

50 Peter Brown, “Sexuality and the City: John Chrysostom,” The Body and Society: Men, Women, and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), 305–322. 51 Brown, The World of Late Antiquity, 108. 52 Chrysostom, “On Colossians Homily 7” (Mayer and Allen, 81–82).

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The tone is forceful and confident; Chrysostom makes it clear that he controls who enters the doorway of the church and that he will not allow those who disobey him to enter. By contrast, PRK compares God to a king who is trying to convince his wife to come back into his palace, to cross that threshold again: It is like a king who got angry with [his] lady, banished her and sent her out of his palace. After some time, he wished to bring her back. She said: Let him do something new for me, and then he may bring me back (PRK 1.1).

Note that in the past, God is conceived as having the power Chrysostom speaks of now, the power to exclude someone, to throw someone out of the palace; in the present, however, God is only capable of wishing that she come back, and must meet her demands to convince her to re-enter. This contrast in confidence and power illustrates the difference between Chrysostom’s feelings of power over his congregation and the rabbis’ beseeching attitude. As noted earlier, the tannaim dealt differently than the amoraim with their powerlessness. The tannaim imagined for themselves such power even when they did not have it, creating an imaginary universe in which they placed themselves in the position of the imperial rulers, what Berkowitz terms a “substitution.” Berkowitz notes that in the early centuries of their persecution by the empire, Christians, identifying with the victim and martyr, enacted a rhetoric not of substitution but of “reversal, flipping winner and loser, judge and criminal.”53 This Christian rhetoric shifted, however, in the third and fourth and fifth centuries, as Christians began to associate themselves with imperial power, and therefore to become associated with the business of judgment, the business, as Berkowitz puts it, of “making martyrs.”54 Increasingly, Christ Himself came to be seen as a Judge, so that the new rhetoric was from the perspective of the righteous judge, and not the righteous victim. The rabbis, too, shift position from the tannaitic period. While during that period, as Berkowitz has shown, they wrote as judges deciding on criminal execution, identified with judges in narrative settings, and told stories about the righteous judgment of God, during the amoraic period there is a shift toward identifying with the victim or martyr. There is a proliferation of martyrdom narratives, including that of Rabbi Akiva, which takes on a life of its own in the

53 54

Berkowitz, Execution and Invention, 212. Berkowitz, Execution and Invention, 212. Her emphasis.

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coming centuries.55 In our own texts, the image of God is increasingly that of a loving parent as opposed to a condemning judge. Indeed, as we saw in chapter 4, PRK 9.5 dramatizes this movement from judge to parent through a mashal about a mother who decides not to tell the judge the truth about her son. As victims themselves in a world of harsh judgment, the rabbis in the amoraic period turn to a rhetoric that identifies with such victims and offers them comfort and defense, rather than the rebuke and condemnation which comes from a judge’s perspective. Relationship to Contemporary Affairs Christian literature is not shy about its contemporary references. The speakers exist in a real political world and speak about the events around them in open statements, relating them to religious themes. John Chrysostom’s homilies are a case in point. They very often take as their point of departure, not only a biblical verse, but also a real political or social event. Among his most famous homilies are those he preaches following the riots that overturned the emperor’s statues in Antioch, surely a contemporary event of great importance to his audience.56 In another sermon, Chrysostom speaks about the deposed consul-eunuch Eutropius who has taken refuge in the church.57 His sermons against the theater and the circus similarly refer to specific events taking place within those arenas as do his sermons against the Jews, often referring to a specific event in which Christians have been fraternizing Jewish establishments in an inappropriate fashion.58 Even those sermons that take a text as their point of departure, such as “On Ephesians Homily 11,” turn eventually to the present state of affairs of his audience, in that case to a discussion of a split within his church. It is precisely such explicit reference to a contemporary audience and contemporary events and enemies that is so strikingly lacking in rabbinic discourse in PRK and elsewhere, as scholars of rabbinic literature have long noted. The talk is invariably of the generic “nations of the world,” and of the ancient Moses, God and Israel. I have argued that the way these generic and biblical figures are portrayed tells us something about the 55

See Berkowitz, Execution and Invention, 212, who cites Boyarin, Dying for God. See Cameron’s comments on these homilies, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire, 136–139. 57 Chrysostom, “On Eutropius” (Mayer and Allen, 132–139). 58 Chrysostom, “Against the Games and Theatres” and “Against the Jews Oration 1” (Mayer and Allen, 118–125 and 148–167). 56

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contemporary audience and the contemporary rabbinic situation, but the argument has been a difficult one as the rabbis are conspicuously reticent about the real contemporary political world that they inhabited. Lapin writes of the rabbis’ “studied ignorance of a wider world” as a strategy for articulating a self-conscious Jewish provincial language.59 Others, such as Israel Yuval have connected this style to James Scott’s notion of the “hidden transcripts” of a dominated population.60 According to this theory, the rabbis adopted such a subtle way of speaking about the present because they were hiding their messages, afraid to reveal their true thoughts because of their subordinate position in the Empire.61 Scott’s notion of the use of “euphemisms” in such situations applies nicely. Just as the southern slaves spoke of God and Moses as their redeemers, in a subtly veiled reference to the northerners, the rabbis speak of the “nations of the world” as a euphemism for their contemporary Roman and Christian enemies.62 The use of the mashal is another example of such subterranean language; the mashal is patently fictive and therefore not subject to scrutiny, becoming a great tool for subversive messages. The application of Scott’s theory is not without problems and complications. The rabbis do not appear to be in the same direct threat of sanction from the Empire as a slave in relation to his master. Nor is it always clear that the rabbis’ subterranean messages are intended to subvert the existing political structure in any way, but rather to subvert and reshape their own religious outlook. Seeing God as indulgent and accommodating is a radical transformation of earlier theology, not a political threat. Nonetheless, what the application of Scott’s theory suggests is that the rabbis’ lack of power may have had a strong influence on their choice of style. That is, the rabbis’ steadfast pursual of apparently exclusively biblical topics may be related to their lack of confidence in the world outside of the Bible, their sense of the need to retreat into a world and a time of a powerful Israel, and yes, their sense of the need to speak quietly and subtly in their own biblical language rather than to attempt to enter the dangerous world of contemporary affairs. Christian preachers, for their part, of course, would have no such needs or fears to turn them away from explicit contemporary references; on the contrary, the contemporary moment was a moment of

59

Lapin, “Hegemony and Its Discontents,” 341. Yuval, “Christianity in Talmud and Midrash.” 61 In addition to Scott, see also Leo Strauss, Persecution and the Art of Writing (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988). 62 Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance, 52–55 and 152–154. 60

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mounting power and confidence, filled with examples of Christian success and opportunities for religious persuasion. Another way of thinking about this difference is in terms of each culture’s understanding of time. For the rabbis, the great mythical time of divine historical intervention and miracle-making is a thing of the distant past, of the biblical time, so that there is a sense not so much of fear in relation to any other contemporary period, but of irrelevance and unimportance. As James Kugel has written, midrash “simply overwhelms the present; the Bible’s time is important, while the present is not; and so it invites the reader to cross over into the enterable world of Scripture.”63 For the Christian preacher, on the other hand, the present is still a time of divine manifestation, still a time of history-making, rather than only history-telling. On some fundamental level, political events of the present are religious events—the first Christian emperor, the first time an emperor gave the right to intercede to a Christian representative rather than a pagan philosopher, and the complicated divisions among Christian sects as well as the separation between Christianity and Judaism. Christian preachers spoke of these contemporary events because they had religious significance in Christianity in a way that only biblical stories had for the rabbis. The rabbinic resistance to and the Christian embracing of the contemporary world are more than signs of their different levels of power and confidence; they are also signs of the beginning of the development of distinctive languages and ways of being. As Cameron has pointed out, one of the distinctive features of Christian language is its constant use of the figural representation; everything becomes a model or a figure for something else. It is for this reason that Christian Lives take on such importance; they offer models of how to act. This way of speaking also extends to biblical interpretation. Typological and allegorical interpretation involve seeing the biblical characters and events as figures or symbols for something else. The movement is away from the text toward something else, the something else often being some issue or moment closer to the present. In his analysis of Chrysostom’s sermons, Frances Young writes of how Chrysostom uses this figural sensibility to move from the past moment spoken of in the biblical text to the contemporary moment of his audience.64

63 64

James Kugel, “Two Introductions to Midrash,” Midrash and Literature, 90. Young, Biblical Exegesis, 257ff.

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Daniel Boyarin, in Carnal Israel, points out that one of the fundamental and enduring differences between Christianity and Judaism is the difference in their views of the body, and its corollary in hermeneutics, the text. While Christians tend to want to move away from the body to the soul, and away from the biblical text to some figural interpretation, the rabbis tend to be more at home in the body and the text itself, and to resist the urge to spiritualize away the basic carnal meaning. The rabbis’ insistence on speaking of the biblical Moses and Abraham rather than contemporary events is another manifestation of this carnal instinct. It is Moses and Abraham and Israel of the desert who are the important characters and they should not be allegorized into contemporary relevance but allowed to remain in their own historical period. Partly this carnal fixation is a matter of pure survival; Christian notions of figurative and allegorical readings strip the real biological nation of Israel of its essential role in the contemporary story of divine love and redemption. The rabbis must insist on remaining glued to the carnal literal meaning of the text; otherwise they and their people will be allegorized into irrelevance. Earlier we noted the ambivalent posture taken by the rabbis toward novelty; on the one hand, “something new” was considered essential to creating an attractive religious atmosphere. On the other hand, the notion of novelty was tempered with the realization that there is nothing new under the sun. This posture, too, is a protective one, one which argues in the face of Christian supercessionism that Judaism cannot be replaced by something new, that the present can never transplant the past because it is the past, only the past, which matters. As we have seen, this attitude does not preclude speaking through the medium of biblical characters and events about the contemporary moment. I have argued that PRK midrashim, like Christian sermons, do speak about contemporary issues; the difference is the idiom. While PRK insists on the language of the past as an eternal mouthpiece for the present, Christian sermons refer explicitly to the present. Conclusion In the late antique Roman Christian Empire, Christian preachers and the Palestinian rabbinic preachers of PRK were involved in a similar project of public persuasion. The era demanded a rhetoric of intimacy and of divine humility and accessibility and so they both created such a rhetoric, each in its own idiom. They both depicted a personal God who had come

rhetorical context

187

down to earth to serve His people. These were words that were meant to touch the heart as well as the mind, and meant to provide access to a wide swath of the population, not just the religious elite. Both groups eventually did succeed in achieving greater popularity and influence, whether through the creation of this particular rhetoric or through other means. However, in the third, fourth and fifth centuries, their successes were at different stages and on very different scales. Christian power and influence had a rapid rise beginning in the third and fourth centuries, and the imperial conversion to Christianity added fuel to its spread. This newfound power marked the humble, intimate rhetoric of Christianity with a sense of confidence and authority unparalleled in PRK. It also shifted the preacher’s perspective from the down-trodden to the down-trodding, from the victim to the judge, creating a rhetoric of rebuke and judgment again unparalleled in PRK. The rabbis’ success, on the other, hand, while beginning in this period, had a slower, more gradual rise, and cannot really be said to be solidly grounded until the sixth century or later. Moreover, the rise of rabbinic popularity and influence was not a rise in real political power, so that the perspective of the down-trodden remained for the rabbis the dominant one. The rhetoric that emerges out of such a climate is understandably less confident and forceful, but also more sympathetic, forgiving and accommodating than its Christian parallels.

CONCLUSION This study of Pesikta deRav Kahana began with an analysis of the text itself and progressed outward to examine its literary and historical context. Part I began by offering a method of reading these midrashim that identified clues in the midrashim themselves as to how their creators felt about PRK’s new midrashic project. Part II outlined PRK’s special stylistic and thematic emphases, intimacy, indulgence and humility. The picture that emerged was of a God who comes down to earth to speak intimately and forgivingly to His people. Part III stepped outside the text of PRK itself in order to corroborate the novelty of these emphases on intimacy, humility and indulgence. Through a comparison of the amoraic PRK and LR to their tannaitic midrashic counterparts, the amoraic midrashim were shown to be generally less exegetically focused and constrained, and more personally and emotionally oriented than the more technical and intellectual tannaitic midrashim. Thematically, as well, PRK’s emphasis on intimacy and indulgence was shown to be quite new, with the tannaitic midrashim developing a theology of greater distance, respect and authority. Part IV continued the movement outward, examining first the historical context of the general rabbinic movement toward popularization, and second, the larger social and cultural world of Roman Christian late antiquity. The analysis weighed the effect of various factors such as the movement toward greater openness and accessibility among elite groups in the Empire and the rising need for a sense of intimacy in the everchanging impersonal cosmopolitan world of the Roman Empire. Another factor considered was the role played by the Christianization of the Empire with its resulting increase in hostility toward Jews and clearer sense of religious boundaries and identities. PRK’s rhetoric was then connected to the rhetoric of contemporary Christian sermons with its strong emphasis on intimacy and humility, and its similar interest in dissemination and popularization. As we saw, the large difference in power between Christians and rabbis during this period lent each rhetoric its own tone. Nevertheless, the two were both involved in a similar project—the project of making their religions more accessible and appealing to the masses through the new use of personal, direct and endearing speech.

190

conclusion

At this point, it may be useful to point out a limitation of my analysis, which is characteristic of much scholarship on rabbinic literature. I have used one text as a representative of an entire era—the amoraic era—and of an entire genre—homiletical midrash. Focusing on one text facilitates a kind of in-depth analysis not possible in a broader study, but it also necessarily involves certain hazards. The characteristics of PRK highlighted in this study may not be as strongly represented in other amoraic texts. Leviticus Rabbah may not be as indulgent or as love-focused, a tendency implied by the greater citation of the Song of Songs in PRK than in LR. Amoraic legal texts like those in the Palestinian Talmud may also prove to have a less indulgent attitude toward the law. Nonetheless, despite these caveats, it is fair to say that PRK stands as the representative of one important strand of rabbinic Judaism in the amoraic era. In order to buttress this claim, to show that PRK is not a fringe phenomenon, I have offered two other types of evidence in addition to the PRK text itself. The first is a statistical analysis involving not only PRK but also LR as well as certain tannaitic midrashim. These data give weight to the claim that there is a strong historical shift taking place between the periods, of which PRK is but one example. The second type of evidence is the broader historical work of other scholars such as Cohen, Goodman, and especially Levine. These historical analyses do make use of a wide range of rabbinic and non-rabbinic sources, and PRK fits well into their understanding of the nature of the changes taking place in the amoraic period. They point to a more open attitude toward the people and a more indulgent attitude toward the observance of the law. These findings strongly suggest that the themes of PRK so prominent in this study are not an isolated phenomenon, but very much representative of the era. My claims about PRK’s novelty also require certain caveats. PRK is not entirely discontinuous with certain tannaitic trends. We find inklings of PRK’s love and intimacy already present in some tannaitic texts. Here, again, statistical analysis is a helpful tool—it makes it clear that the argument is not that tannaitic texts never spoke intimately but simply that they spoke in this way less frequently than amoraic texts. In the end, the shift toward intimacy, indulgence, accessibility and greater emotion should not be understood as a complete and dramatic change of the amoraic era but as a gradual shift taking place over the course of hundreds of years and with some normal variation along the way. In addition to statistical analysis and historical scholarship, I have also attended closely to what the PRK texts are saying about themselves. That

conclusion

191

is, this study of PRK was very much led by PRK creators’ own views about themselves and their project. The demand for something new of 1.1, the sweets offered in courtship in 12.11 and the luxurious non-schooling of 12.3—all of these images helped to shape and direct this study of PRK, and helped to clarify my ideas about its goals and means. My analysis attends to both text and history. One of the goals of this book is to create a study in which text and history are brought together in a way that allows them to inform and enrich each other. Historical context helps to clarify and enrich our understanding of the meaning of texts, and close textual analysis helps to enrich our understanding of history, offering a specific example of a broader phenomenon. On the textual side, certain remarkable elements of PRK, such as the direct, informal and personal speech of God in the statements of the Holy One blessed be He, are better understood and more clearly highlighted when seen in the context of a historical period of intimacy. Historical context also sheds light on certain unusual elements of specific texts, like the reversed power dynamic of 1.1, understood as a reflection of the rabbis’ historical pursual of followers during this period. On the historical side, the close textual analysis of PRK provides a concrete example of the general historical movement of outreach during this period. Historians know that the rabbis ultimately won the battle for the hearts and minds of the vast majority of Jews by the geonic period. The analysis of PRK fills in an important gap in this knowledge, the question of how the rabbis succeeded. A close look at PRK helps us see how the rabbis went about changing their religious posture in their pursuit of followers, how they reinvented the image of God and of the rabbi and of Judaism itself, shifting from the authoritarian stance of some tannaim to a more indulgent and personal religion. This study helps to explain how rabbinic Judaism was transformed from an academic sect to a popular religion. While there were surely many factors in the popularization of rabbinic Judaism, this book identifies the role played by aggadic midrash generally, and more specifically, by the type of intimate indulgent rhetoric employed in PRK.

APPENDIX THE HEBREW/ARAMAIC TEXT OF SELECTED PRK MIDRASHIM After a brief introduction to the text, some of the PRK midrashim most frequently discussed in this book will appear in their Hebrew/Aramaic original. The text is Mandelbaum’s critical edition, used here with permission from JTS. Mandelbaum’s notes and critical apparatus have not been included, and in some cases, only part of the midrashic text is printed. Introduction to the Text Name Pesikta means “section” or “chapter” and refers to PRK’s method of organizing its material in chapters of comments on a synagogue pericope rather than as a running commentary on the biblical text.1 As for the name Rav Kahana, its identity and association with the present midrashic collection is unclear. Zunz and Buber suggested that it derives from an Abba bar Kahana to whom is attributed the first petihta in the longest section of the collection, on the weeks before and after the 9th of Av. Mandelbaum argues that the name derives from the Rav Kahana cited at the start of the Rosh Hashanah piska, which he believes to be the beginning of the collection.2 Others have suggested that Rav Kahana is the name of a later editor.3 As Strack and Stemberger comment, “none of these solutions is satisfactory; the naming of PRK after Rab Kahana remains unexplained.”4

1 This introduction relies heavily on Strack and Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash, 292–296; Braude and Kapstein’s introduction to their translation; and Mandelbaum’s introduction to his critical edition. 2 See Strack and Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash, 292. 3 See Braude and Kapstein, Pesikta de-Rab Kahana, lxxxix. 4 Strack and Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash, 296.

194

appendix History

The text of PRK appears to have been well-studied from the fifth through the sixteenth century and then to have disappeared.5 In 1832, Zunz posited the existence of such a midrashic collection based on its citations in the Arukh and the Yalkut Shimoni and set about to reconstruct its content and structure. In 1868, Buber corroborated the work of Zunz, using four newly found manuscripts of the collection to publish the midrash. A few years later, M. Friedmann pointed to two other extant manuscripts of PRK in his Beth Talmud 5. Mandelbaum’s critical edition, published in 1987, makes use of all of these previous manuscripts as well as one other and a number of newly found Genizah fragments. His edition uses the Oxford MS Marshall Or. 24, dated to 1291, as its base text, only making minor changes based on other manuscripts when the text is clearly corrupt.6 The text which follows this introduction is from this edition of PRK, but does not include his notes or critical apparatus. Structure The Mandelbaum edition of Pesikta de Rav Kahana includes 28 piska’ot and nine appendices. Mandelbaum breaks them into five groups: 1) 2) 3) 4) 5)

Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur (piska’ot 23–26) Sukkot and its accompanying holidays (piska’ot 27–28) Hanukkah and the Special Sabbaths (piska’ot 1–5) Passover to Shavu’ot (piska’ot 6–12) The special haftarot surrounding the 9th of Av (piska’ot 13–22)

Mandelbaum’s edition begins with the piska dealing with the holiday of Hannukah because he follows the order of his base text manuscript. However, he agrees with Zunz that the original text began with Rosh Hashanah, basing his argument on other manuscript and Genizah evidence. Buber argued for the Hanukkah beginning and others, such as Braude and Kapstein, also find this the likely original order.7 5 R. Yehiel E. Poupko, introduction to the new edition of Braude and Kapstein, Pesikta de-Rab Kahana, xi. 6 Information based on Strack and Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash, 293, as well as Mandelbaum’s introduction to his critical edition. Bernard Mandelbaum, Pesikta de Rav Kahana According to an Oxford Manuscript (New York: JTSA, 1987). 7 Mandelbaum, “Introduction,” Pesikta de Rav Kahana. Strack and Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash, 293–294. Braude and Kapstein, Pesikta de-Rab Kahana, lxxxviii.

the hebrew/aramaic text of selected prk midrashim

195

Shared Material with Leviticus Rabbah Five of PRK’s chapters are shared with Leviticus Rabbah: PRK 8, 9, 23, 26 and 27. There is some controversy over whether these chapters are to be understood as original to LR or PRK. Albeck and Neusner have argued that they are original to LR, while Heinemann argues the opposite, that they are all original to PRK except for PRK 8. Because of this shared material and certain other shared characteristics, M. Margulies suggests that LR and PRK were composed by the same redactor.8 Date Zunz argued for a late date, around 700, for the composition of PRK, but this late date was based partly on certain parts of PRK which appear to be a late addition to an original earlier core, like the material dealing with the holiday of Simhat Torah.9 Based on the work’s general content, structure, literary connections, and language, Strack and Stemberger place it clearly into the fifth century.10 Braude and Kapstein similarly argue for a fifth century date because there are no rabbis cited in it who lived later than the fifth century. Also significant, according to Braude and Kapstein, is PRK’s citation by the sixth century paytan Yannai.11 Lewis Barth argues for an even more specific date, at least in relation to chapters 13–22, the haftarot of the weeks of rebuke and consolation. He suggests that these chapters betray an attitude of “acceptance of the status quo” which argues for a quiet period, like the one experienced between the years 451 and 527.12

8

Strack and Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash, 294–295. Strack and Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash, 295. 10 Strack and Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash, 295. 11 Braude and Kapstein, Pesikta de-Rab Kahana, lxxxv. 12 Lewis M. Barth, “The ‘Three of Rebuke and Seven of Consolation’: Sermons in the Pesikta de Rav Kahana,” JJS 33 (1982): 503–515. 9

‫פסיקתא דרב כהנא‬ ‫‪1.1‬‬ ‫באתי לגני אחותי כלה )שיר השירים ה‪ ,‬א(‪ .‬ר׳ עזריה בשם ר׳ סימון אמר למלך‬ ‫שכעס על מטרונא וטרדה והוציאה מתוך פלטין שלו‪ ,‬לאחר זמן ביקש להחזירה‪,‬‬ ‫אמרה יחדש לי דבר ואחר כך הוא מחזירני‪ .‬כך לשעבר הקב״ה מקבל קורבנות‬ ‫מלמעלה‪ ,‬שנא׳ וירח י״י את ריח הניחוח )בראשית ח‪ :‬כא(‪ ,‬ועכשו הוא מקבל‬ ‫מלמטה‪ ,‬באתי לגני אחותי כלה )שיר השירים ה(‪ .‬א״ר חנינא לימדתך תורה‬ ‫דרך ארץ שלא יהא החתן נכנס לחופה עד שהכלה נותנת לו רשות‪ ,‬יבא דודי‬ ‫לגנו )שיר השירים ד‪ :‬טז( ואח״כ באתי לגני‪ .‬ר׳ תנחום חתניה דר׳ אלעזר בן‬ ‫אבינא בשם ר׳ שמעון בן יוסני‪ ,‬באתי לגן אין כתי׳ כאן אלא באתי לגני‪ ,‬לגנוני‪,‬‬ ‫במקום שהיה עיקרה מתחלה‪ ,‬עיקר שכינה בתחתונים היה‪ ,‬הה״ד וישמעו את‬ ‫קול י״י אלהים וגו׳ )בראשית ג‪ :‬ח(‪ .‬אמר ר׳ אבא בר כהנא מהלך אין כתי׳ כאן‬ ‫אלא מתהלך‪ ,‬מקפץ וסליק‪ .‬ויתחבא האדם ואשתו )בראשית ג(‪ ,‬אמ׳ ר׳ אייבו‬ ‫באותה שעה גדעה קומתו של אדם הראשון ונעשית של ק׳ אמה‪ .‬א״ר יצחק כתי׳‬ ‫צדיקים יירשו ארץ וגו׳ )תהלים לז‪ :‬כט(‪ ,‬והרשעים היכן הן‪ ,‬פורחין באויר‪ ,‬אלא‬ ‫מהו וישכנו לעד עליה )תהלים ל״ז(‪ ,‬ישכינו שכינה בארץ‪ .‬עיקר שכינה מתחלה‬ ‫בתחתונים‪ ,‬וכיון שחטא אדם הראשון נסתלקה לרקיע ראשון‪ .‬עמד דור אנוש‬ ‫וחטא נסתלקה מן הראשון לשני‪ .‬דור המבול וחטא נסתלקה מן השני לשלישי‪.‬‬ ‫דור הפלגה וחטא משלישי לרביעי‪ .‬מצריים בימי אברהם אבינו וחטאו נסתלקה‬ ‫מרביעי לחמשי‪ .‬הסדומיים וחטאו מחמשי לששי‪ .‬מצרים בימי משה מן הששי‬ ‫לשביעי‪ .‬וכנגדן עמדו ז׳ צדיקים והורידו אותה לארץ‪ .‬עמד אברהם אבינו זכה‬ ‫והורידה מן השביעי לששי‪ .‬עמד יצחק זכה והורידה מן הששי לחמשי‪ .‬עמד יעקב‬ ‫זכה והורידה מחמשי לרביעי‪ .‬עמד לוי וזכה והורידה מרביעי לשלישי‪ .‬עמד קהת‬ ‫וזכה והורידה משלישי לשני‪ .‬עמד עמרם וזכה והורידה מן השני לראשון‪ .‬עמד‬ ‫משה וזכה והורידה לארץ‪ ,‬לכך נאמר ויהי ביום כלת משה וגו׳ )במדבר ז‪ :‬א(‪.‬‬ ‫*‪1.3‬‬ ‫בעטרה שעטרה לו אמו ביום חתונתו )שיר השירים ג‪ :‬יא(‪ .‬א״ר יצחק חיזרנו‬ ‫על כל המקרא ולא מצינו שעשתה בת שבע עטרה לשלמה בנה‪ ,‬אלא זה אוהל‬ ‫מועד שהוא מעוטר בתכלת וארגמן ותולעת שני‪ .‬א״ר חוניא‪ ,‬שאל ר׳ שמעון בן‬ ‫יוחאי את ר׳ אלעזר בר׳ יוסי‪ ,‬אפשר ששמעת מאביך מהו בעטרה שעטרה לו‬ ‫אמו‪ ,‬א״ל למלך שהיה לו בת והיה אוהבה יותר מדאי‪ ,‬לא זז מחבבה עד שקראה‬ ‫אחותי‪ ,‬לא זז מחבבה עד שקראה אמי‪ .‬כך בתחלה חיבב הב״ה את ישראל וקראן‬ ‫בתי‪ ,‬שמעי בת וראי )תהלים מה‪ :‬יא(‪ .‬לא זז מחבבה עד שקרא אותן אחותי‪,‬‬ ‫‪* Indicates a midrash for which I have only printed part, not all, of the text.‬‬

‫‪appendix‬‬

‫‪198‬‬

‫שנא׳ אחותי רעייתי )שיר השירים ה‪ :‬ב(‪ .‬לא זז מחבבה עד שקרא אותן אמי‪,‬‬ ‫שנ׳ שמעו אלי עמי ולאומי וגו׳ )ישעיהו נ״א‪ :‬ד(‪ ,‬ולאמי כתי׳‪ .‬עמד ר׳ שמעון בן‬ ‫יוחאי ונשקו על ראשו‪ ,‬א״ל אילו לא באתי אלא לשמוע דבר זה דיי‪.‬‬ ‫*‪2.10‬‬ ‫ר׳ יודה בר סימון בש׳ ר׳ יוחנ׳ שלשה דברי׳ שמע משה מפי הגבורה ונבהל‬ ‫ונרתע לאחוריו‪ .‬בשעה שאמר לו ועשו לי מקדש )שמות כה‪ :‬ח(‪ ,‬אמ׳ משה לפני‬ ‫הקב״ה‪ ,‬רבונו של עולם הנה השמים ושמי השמים לא יכלכלוך ואתה אמרת‬ ‫ועשו לי מקדש‪ ,‬א׳ לו הקב״ה‪ ,‬משה לא כשאתה סבור‪ ,‬אלא עשרים קרש בצפון‬ ‫ועשרים קרש בדרום שמונה במערב ואני יורד ומצמצם שכינתי ביניכם למטן‪,‬‬ ‫דכתי׳ ונועדתי לך שם )שמות ל‪ :‬כב(‪ .‬ובשעה שאמ׳ את קרבני לחמי לאישי‬ ‫)במדבר כח‪ :‬ב(‪ ,‬א׳ משה לפני הקב״ה‪ ,‬רבונו של עול׳ אם מכניס אני כל חיות‬ ‫שבעולם יש בהן העלאה אחת או כל עצים שבעולם יש בהם העלאה אחת‪ ,‬שנ׳‬ ‫ולבנון אין די בער וחיתו אין די עולה )ישעיה מ‪ :‬טז(‪ ,‬א׳ לו הקב״ה‪ ,‬משה לא‬ ‫כשאתה סבור‪ ,‬אלא ואמרת להם זה האשה )במדבר כח‪ :‬ג(‪ ,‬ולא שניים בבת‬ ‫אחת אלא אחד שחרית ואחד בין הערבים‪ ,‬שנ׳ הכבש אחד תעשה בבקר ואת‬ ‫הכבש השני תעשה בין הערבים )במדבר כ״ח‪ :‬ד(‪ .‬ובשעה שאמ׳ ונתנו איש‬ ‫כופר נפשו )שמות ל‪ :‬יב(‪ ,‬א׳ משה לפני הקב״ה‪ ,‬רבו׳ ש״ע מי יכול לתת פדיון‬ ‫נפשו‪ ,‬אח לא פדה יפדה איש )תהלים מט‪ :‬ח( ויקר פדיון נפשם )תהלים מ״ט‪:‬‬ ‫ט(‪ .‬א׳ לו הקב״ה למשה‪ ,‬לא כשאתה סבור אלא זה יתנו )שמות ל‪ :‬יג(‪ ,‬כזה‬ ‫יתנו‪ .‬ר׳ הונא בשם ר׳ שדי לא מצאנוה שגיא כח )איוב לז‪ :‬כג(‪ ,‬לא מצינו כוחו‬ ‫של הקב״ה‪ ,‬ואין הקב״ה בא בטרחות על ישר׳‪ .‬וכיון ששמע משה כך התחיל‬ ‫לשבח בישר׳ ואו׳ אשרי העם שי״י אלהיו אשרי העם שככה לו )תהלים קמד‪:‬‬ ‫טו(‪ ,‬אשרי שאל יעקב בעזרו )תהלים קמו‪ :‬ה(‪ .‬חסילה‪.‬‬ ‫‪4.1‬‬ ‫מי יתן טהור מטמא לא אחד )איוב יד‪ :‬ד(‪ ,‬כגון אברהם מתרח‪ ,‬חזקיה מאחז‪,‬‬ ‫ומרדכי משמעי‪ ,‬ישר׳ מאומות‪ ,‬העולם הבא מהעולם הזה‪ .‬מי עשה כן‪ ,‬מי צוה‬ ‫כן‪ ,‬מי גזר כן‪ ,‬לא אחד‪ ,‬לא יחידו של עולם‪ .‬תמן תנינן בהרת כגריס טמא פרח‬ ‫בכלו טהור‪ .‬מי עשה כן‪ ,‬מי צוה כן‪ ,‬מי גזר כן‪ ,‬לא יחידו של עולם‪ .‬תמן תנינן‬ ‫האשה שמת וולדה בתוך מעיה והושיטה החיה את ידה ונגעה בו‪ ,‬החיה טמאה‬ ‫טומאת שבעה‪ ,‬והאשה טהורה עד שיצא הולד‪ .‬המת בבית טהור‪ ,‬יצא מתוכו‬ ‫הרי הוא טמא‪ .‬מי עשה כן‪ ,‬מי צוה כן‪ ,‬מי גזר כן‪ ,‬לא אחד‪ ,‬לא יחידו של עולם‪.‬‬ ‫ותנינן תמן כל העסוקין בפרה מתחילה ועד סוף מטמאין בבגדים‪ ,‬היא עצמ׳‬ ‫מטהרת טמאים‪ .‬אלא אמר הקב״ה חוקה חקקתי וגזירה גזרתי ואין את רשיי‬ ‫לעבור על גזירתי‪ ,‬זאת חוקת התורה אשר צוה י״י לאמר )במדבר יט‪ :‬ב(‪.‬‬

‫‪199‬‬

‫פסיקתא דרב כהנא‬

‫*‪4.4‬‬ ‫ד״א מי כהחכם )קהלת ח‪ :‬א(‪ ,‬זה משה‪ ,‬דכת׳ ביה עיר גבורים עלה חכם‬ ‫)משלי כא‪ :‬כב(‪ .‬ומי יודע פשר דבר )קהלת ח(‪ ,‬שפירש תורה לישר׳‪ .‬חכמת‬ ‫אדם תאיר פניו )קהלת ח(‪ ,‬ר׳ מאני דשאב ר׳ יהושע דסכנין בשם ר׳ לוי‪ ,‬על‬ ‫כל דבר ודבר שהיה הקב״ה או׳ למשה היה או׳ לו טומאתו וטהרתו‪ ,‬וכיון שהגיע‬ ‫לפרשת אמור אל הכהנים וג׳ )ויקרא כא‪ :‬א(‪ ,‬אמר לפניו‪ ,‬רבון העולמים ואם‬ ‫נטמא במה היא טהרתו‪ ,‬ולא השיבו‪ .‬באותה שעה ניתכרכמו פניו של רבינו‬ ‫משה‪ ,‬הד׳ היא דכת׳ ועוז פניו ישונא )קהלת ח(‪ ,‬וכיון שהגיע לפרשה של פרה‬ ‫א׳ לו הקב״ה‪ ,‬משה אותה האמירה שאמרתי לך אמור אל הכהנים וג׳ )ויקרא‬ ‫כ״א( ואמרת לפניי רבון העולמים ואם נטמא במה היא טהרתו ולא השיבותיך‪,‬‬ ‫אלא זו היא טהרתו‪ ,‬ולקחו לטמא מעפר וג׳ )במדבר יט‪ :‬יז(‪ ,‬איזו היא‪ ,‬זאת‬ ‫חוקת התורה )במדבר יט‪ :‬ב(‪.‬‬ ‫*‪5.3‬‬ ‫ד״א תוחלת ממושכה מחלה לב )משלי יג‪ :‬יב(‪ .‬א״ר חייא בר אבא אילו ישר׳‬ ‫עד שלא נגאלו‪ ,‬את מוצא כיון שבא משה אצל ישר׳ ואמ׳ להן אמ׳ לי הקב״ה‬ ‫לך אמור לישר׳‪ ,‬פקד פקדתי אתכם )שמות ג‪ :‬טז(‪ ,‬אמרו לו‪ ,‬רבינו משה‪ ,‬עדיין‬ ‫פקידה‪ ,‬מה כחי כי אייחל ומה קיצי כי אאריך נפשי‪ ,‬אם כח אבנים כחי אם‬ ‫בשרי נחוש )איוב ו‪ :‬יא‪ ,‬יב(‪ ,‬אם כוחן של אבנים הוא כוחינו‪ ,‬אם בשרינו של‬ ‫נחשת הוא‪ .‬וכיון שאמ׳ להם החדש הזה אתם ניגאלין אמרין‪ ,‬והא סימן טב‪ ,‬ועץ‬ ‫חיים תאוה באה )משלי י״ג(‪ ,‬החדש הזה לכם ראש חדשים )שמות יב‪ :‬ב(‪.‬‬ ‫‪5.7‬‬ ‫קול דודי הנה זה בא מדלג על ההרים מקפץ על הגבעות )שיר השירים ב‪ :‬ח(‪.‬‬ ‫ר׳ יהוד׳ ור׳ נחמי׳ ורבנין‪ .‬ר׳ יהודה א׳ קול דודי הנה זה בא‪ ,‬זה משה‪ .‬בשעה‬ ‫שבא משה וא׳ לישר׳ בחדש הזה אתם נגאלין אמרו לו‪ ,‬רבינו משה‪ ,‬היאך אנו‬ ‫נגאלין‪ ,‬לא כך אמ׳ הקב״ה לאבינו אברהם ועבדום וענו אותם ארבע מאות שנה‬ ‫)בראשית טו‪ :‬יג(‪ ,‬והלא אין בידינו אלא מאתים ועשר‪ .‬א׳ להם‪ ,‬הואיל והוא חפץ‬ ‫בגאולתכם אינו מביט בחשבונותיכם‪ ,‬אלא מדלג על ההרים מקפץ על הגבעות‬ ‫)שיר השירים ב(‪ ,‬מדלג על הקיצים ועל החשבונות ועל העיבורים‪ ,‬ובחדש הזה‬ ‫אתם נגאלין‪ ,‬החדש הזה לכם ראש חדשים )שמות יב‪ :‬ב(‪ .‬ור׳ נחמיה א׳ קול‬ ‫דודי הנה זה בא )שיר השירים ב(‪ ,‬זה משה‪ ,‬בשעה שבא ואמ׳ לישר׳ בחדש הזה‬ ‫אתם נגאלין אמרו לו‪ ,‬רבינו משה‪ ,‬היאך אנו נגאלין וארץ מצר׳ מלאה מטנופת‬ ‫ע״ז שלנו‪ .‬א׳ להם‪ ,‬הואיל והוא חפץ בגאולתכם אינו מביט בע״ז שלכם‪ ,‬אלא‬ ‫מדלג על ההרים מקפץ על הגבעות‪ .‬ואין הרים אלא בתי ע״ז‪ ,‬היך מה דאת א׳‬

‫‪appendix‬‬

‫‪200‬‬

‫על ראשי ההרים יזבחו ועל הגבעות יקטרו )הושע ד‪ :‬יג(‪ .‬ורבנין אמרין קול דודי‬ ‫הנה זה בא )שיר השירים ב(‪ ,‬זה משה‪ ,‬בשעה שבא ואמר לישר׳ בחדש הזה‬ ‫אתם נגאלין אמרו לו‪ ,‬רבינו משה‪ ,‬היאך אנו נגאלין ואין בידינו מעשים טובים‪ .‬א׳‬ ‫להן‪ ,‬הואיל והוא חפץ בגאולתכם אינו מביט במעשיכם הרעים‪ ,‬ובמי הוא מביט‪,‬‬ ‫בצדיקים שבכם כגון עמרם ובית דינו‪ .‬ואין הרים וגבעות אלא בתי דינין‪ ,‬היך מה‬ ‫דאת אמר אלכה וירדתי אל ההרים )שופטים יא‪ :‬לז(‪ .‬א״ר יודן עבדות וגירות‬ ‫בארץ לא להם‪ ,‬ועבדום וענו אותם ארבע מאות שנה )בראשית טו‪ :‬יג(‪ ,‬אפילו‬ ‫על איספיטלית שלהם‪ .‬ר׳ יודן בשם ר׳ ליעזר בנו של ר׳ יוסי הגל׳ ‪/‬הגלילי‪ /‬ר׳‬ ‫חונה בשם ר׳ ליעזר בן יעקב‪ ,‬קול דודי הנה זה בא )שיר השירים ב(‪ ,‬זה מלך‬ ‫המשיח‪ ,‬בשעה שהוא בא ואו׳ ליש׳ בחדש הזה אתם נגאלין הם אומ׳ לו‪ ,‬רבינו‬ ‫מלך המשיח‪ ,‬היאך אנו נגאלין‪ ,‬לא כך א׳ הקב״ה שהוא משעבדינו בשבעים‬ ‫אומות‪ .‬והוא משיבן שתי תשובות ואו׳ להם‪ ,‬אחד מכם גלה לברבריה ואחד מכם‬ ‫לסרמטי׳ כגון שגליתם כולכם‪ .‬ולא עוד אלא שהמלכות הרשעה הזאת מכתיבת‬ ‫טירונין מכל אומה ואומה‪ ,‬כותי אחד בא ומשעבד כגון ששיעבדה כל אומתו‪,‬‬ ‫כושי אחד בא ומשעבד כגון ששיעבדה כל אומתו‪ ,‬ובחדש הזה אתם נגאלין‪,‬‬ ‫החדש הזה לכם ראש חדשים )שמות יב‪ :‬ב(‪.‬‬ ‫*‪5.8‬‬ ‫דומה דודי לצבי או לעופר האילים וג׳ )שיר השירים ב‪ :‬ט(‪ .‬דומה דודי לצבי‪,‬‬ ‫אמ׳ ר׳ יצחק את או׳ לנו דיאו דיאו את לגבן‪ ,‬דאי אתא את לגבן קדמיי‪ .‬א״ר‬ ‫יצחק מה הצבי הזה מדלג ומקפץ מאילן לאילן מסוכה לסוכה מגדר לגדר‪,‬‬ ‫כן הקב״ה מדלג ממצרים לים‪ ,‬ומים לסיני‪ .‬במצרים ראו אותו‪ ,‬ועברתי בארץ‬ ‫מצרים בלילה הזה )שמות יב‪ :‬יב(‪ .‬בים ראו אתו‪ ,‬וירא ישראל את היד הגדולה‬ ‫)שמות יד‪ :‬לא(‪ .‬בסיני ראו אותו‪ ,‬ויאמר י״י מסיני בא וזרח משעיר למו )דברים‬ ‫לג‪ :‬ב(‪ .‬או לעופר האילים )שיר השירים ב‪ :‬ט(‪ ,‬ר׳ יוסה בר׳ חנינה א׳ לעזילהן‬ ‫דאיילתה‪ .‬הנה זה עומד אחר כתלינו )שיר השירים ב(‪ ,‬כי ביום השלישי ירד י״י‬ ‫לעיני כל העם וג׳ )שמות יט‪ :‬יא(‪ .‬משגיח מן החלונות )שיר השירים ב(‪ ,‬וירד‬ ‫י״י וג׳ )שמות יט‪ :‬כ(‪ .‬מציץ מן החרכים )שיר השירים ב(‪ ,‬בשעה שא׳ אנכי‬ ‫י״י אלהיך )שמות כ‪ :‬ב(‪ .‬ענה דודי ואמר לי )שיר השירים ב‪ :‬י(‪ ,‬מה אמר לי‪,‬‬ ‫אנכי י״י אלהיך )שמות כ(‪.‬‬ ‫ד״א דומה דודי לצבי )שיר השירים ב‪ :‬ט(‪ .‬א״ר יצחק מה הצבי הזה מדלג‬ ‫על ההרים ומקפץ מאילן לאילן מסוכה לסוכה מגדר לגדר‪ ,‬כך הקב״ה מדלג‬ ‫מבית כנסת זו לכנסת זו‪ ,‬מבית מדרש זה לבית מדרש זה‪ .‬בשביל מה‪ ,‬בשביל‬ ‫לברך את ישראל‪ .‬בזכות מי‪ ,‬בזכות מי שהיה יושב באלוני ממרא‪ ,‬הד״ה דכת׳‬ ‫וירא אליו י״י באלוני ממרא וג׳ )בראשית יח‪ :‬א(‪ .‬ר׳ ברכיה בשם ר׳ לוי‪ ,‬יושב‬ ‫)בראשית י״ח(‪ ,‬ישב כתב‪ .‬כיון שנגלה עליו הקב״ה ביקש אבינו אברהם לעמוד‪,‬‬ ‫א׳ לו הקב״ה שב‪ ,‬ישב אבינו אברהם‪ .‬אמר לו הקב״ה‪ ,‬אברהם כל זמן שבניך‬

‫‪201‬‬

‫פסיקתא דרב כהנא‬

‫ניכנסין בבתי כנסיות ובבתי מדרשות יהיו יושבין וכבודי עומד‪ .‬ומה טעמא‪,‬‬ ‫אלהים נצב בעדת אל )תהלים פב‪ :‬א(‪ .‬א״ר חגי בשם ר׳ יצחק אלהים עומד‬ ‫אין כת׳ כן‪ ,‬אלא ניצב‪ ,‬איטמוס‪ .‬ר׳ שמואל בר חייה בר יהודה בשם ר׳ חנינה‬ ‫כל קילוס וקילוס שיש׳ מקלסין להקב״ה כבודו יושב ביניהם‪ .‬ומה טעמא‪ ,‬ואתה‬ ‫קדוש יושב תהילות ישראל )תהלים כב‪ :‬ד(‪ .‬או לעופר האילים )שיר השירים‬ ‫ב(‪ ,‬ר׳ יוסה בר׳ חנינה אמ׳ לעזליהן דאיילתה‪ .‬הנה זה עומד אחר כתלינו )שיר‬ ‫השירים ב(‪ ,‬אחר כתלי בתי כנסיות ובתי מדרשות‪ .‬משגיח מן החלונות )שיר‬ ‫השירים ב(‪ ,‬מבין כתיפות של כהנים‪ .‬מציץ מן החרכים )שיר השירים ב(‪ ,‬מבין‬ ‫אצבעותיהם של כהני׳‪ .‬ענה דודי ואמר לי )שיר השירים ב(‪ ,‬מה א׳ לי‪ ,‬יברכך‬ ‫י״י וישמרך )במדבר ו‪ :‬כד(‪.‬‬ ‫*‪6.1‬‬ ‫אם ארעב לא אומר לך כי לי תבל ומלואה )תהלים נ‪ :‬יב(‪ .‬א״ר סימון שלש‬ ‫עשרה מידות של רחמים כתוב בו בהק׳‪ ,‬הד״ה דכת׳ ויעבר י״י על פניו ויקרא‬ ‫י״י י״י אל רחום וחנון ארך אפים ורב חסד ואמת נוצר חסד לאלפים נושא עון‬ ‫ופשע וחטאה ונקה )שמות לד‪ :‬ז(‪ .‬וכי יש רחמן שהוא מוסר מזונותיו לאכזרי‪,‬‬ ‫הוי אם ארעב לא אומר לך וג׳ )תהלים נ(‪ .‬א״ר יהודה בר׳ סימון א׳ הקב״ה‬ ‫עשר בהמות טהורות מסרתי לך‪ ,‬שלש ברשותך ושבע שאין ברשותך‪ .‬אילו הן‬ ‫שברשותך‪ ,‬שור שה כשבים ושה עזים )דברים יד‪ :‬ד(‪ .‬ואילו שאין ברשותך‪,‬‬ ‫איל וצבי ויחמור ואקו ודישון ותאו וזמר )דברים יד‪ :‬ה(‪ .‬שמא הטרחתי עליך‬ ‫שתהא מחזר בהרים ובגבעות שתביא לפני קרבן מאילו שאינן ברשותך‪ ,‬והלא‬ ‫לא אמרתי לך אלא ממה שברשותך ומן הגדל על אבוסיך‪ ,‬הוי אם ארעב לא‬ ‫אומר לך וג׳ )תהלים נ‪ :‬יב(‪.‬‬ ‫*‪6.3‬‬ ‫ר׳ אבה בר כהנא ור׳ חנין‪ ,‬תרויהון בשם ר׳ עזריה דכפר חטייא‪ ,‬למלך שהיו לו‬ ‫שני מגרסין‪ ,‬בישל לו הראשון תבשיל ואכלו היה ערב לו‪ ,‬בישל לו השני תבשיל‬ ‫ואכלו והיה ערב לו‪ .‬ואין אנו יודעין איזה מהן ערב לו ביותר אלא במה שהוא‬ ‫מצוה את השני ואי לו כתבשיל הזה עשה לי‪ ,‬אנו יודעים של שני ערב לו יותר‪.‬‬ ‫כך הקריב נח קרבן והיה ערב להקב״ה‪ ,‬וירח י״י את ריח הניחוח )בראשית ח‪:‬‬ ‫כא(‪ ,‬הקריבו ישר׳ קרבן והיה ערב להקב״ה‪ ,‬ואין אנו יודעין איזה מהן ערב לו‬ ‫ביותר‪ ,‬אלא ממה שהוא מצוה את ישר׳ ואו׳ להם‪ ,‬ריח ניחחי תשמרו להקריב‬ ‫לי במועדו )במדבר כח‪ :‬ב(‪ ,‬אנו יודעים ששל ישר׳ ערב לו ביותר‪ .‬ר׳ אבין א׳‬ ‫תרתיי‪ .‬ר׳ אבין אמ׳ למלך מיסב על אקוביטון שלו והכניסו לו תבשיל הראשון‬ ‫ואכלו והיה ערב לו‪ ,‬והכניסו לו תבשיל השני ואכלו והיה ערב לו‪ ,‬התחיל ממחה‬ ‫בקערה‪ .‬כך עלות מחים אעלה לך )תהלים סו‪ :‬טו(‪ ,‬כעולות מחים אעלה לך‪ ,‬כזה‬ ‫שהוא ממחה בקערה‪ .‬ר׳ אבין א׳ חורי‪ .‬למלך שהיה מהלך בדרך והגיע לבורגן‬

‫‪appendix‬‬

‫‪202‬‬

‫הראשון ואכל שם ושתה שם‪ ,‬והגיע לבורגון השני ואכל שם ושתה שם ולן שם‪.‬‬ ‫כך הוא‪ ,‬למה הוא מתני‪ ,‬על העולה )ויקרא ג‪ :‬ה(‪ ,‬היא העולה )ויקרא ו‪ :‬ב(‪,‬‬ ‫זאת תורת העולה )ויקרא ו(‪ ,‬אלא מלמד שהעולה כולה כליל לאישים‪.‬‬ ‫‪9.5‬‬ ‫עמי מה עשיתי לך ומה הלאתיך ענה בי )מיכה ו‪ :‬ג(‪ .‬א״ר אחא ענה בי וקבל‬ ‫שכר‪ ,‬ואל תענה ברעך ותקבל עליו דין וחשבון‪ .‬א״ר שמואל בר נחמן בשלשה‬ ‫מקומות בא הקב״ה להיתוכח עם ישראל והיו אומות העולם שמחים‪ ,‬בשעה שא׳‬ ‫לכו נא ונוכחה יאמר י״י )ישעיה א‪ :‬יח(‪ ,‬שמחו אומות אמרו היאך יכולים אילו‬ ‫להיתוכח עם בוראן‪ ,‬עכשיו הוא מכלה אותן מן העולם‪ .‬וכיון שראה הק׳ שאומות‬ ‫העולם שמחים הפכה להם לטובה‪ ,‬אם יהיו חטאיכם כשנים וג׳ )ישעיהו א(‪,‬‬ ‫תמהו אומות העולם זו תשובה זו תוכחת‪ ,‬לא אתא אלא למתפוגגה עם בנויי‪.‬‬ ‫ובשעה שאמ׳ הקב״ה שמעו הרים את ריב י״י וג׳ )מיכה ו‪ :‬ב(‪ ,‬שמחו אומות‬ ‫העולם ואמרו היאך יכולים אילו להתווכח עם בוראן‪ ,‬עכשיו הוא מכלה אותן‬ ‫מן העולם‪ .‬וכיון שראה הקב״ה שאומות העולם שמחים הפכה להם לטובה‪ ,‬עמי‬ ‫מה עשיתי לך ומה הלאיתיך ענה בי וג׳‪ ,‬עמי זכר נא מה יעץ בלק מלך מואב‬ ‫וג׳ )מיכה ו‪ :‬ג‪ ,‬ה(‪ .‬ובשעה שאמ׳ וריב לי״י עם יהודה וג׳ )הושע יב‪ :‬ג(‪ ,‬שמחו‬ ‫אומות העול׳ ואמרו עכשיו הוא מכלה אותן מן העולם‪ .‬וכיון שראה הקב״ה‬ ‫שאומות העולם שמחים הפכה להם לטובה‪ ,‬בבטן עקב את אחיו וג׳ )הושע‬ ‫י״ב‪ :‬ד(‪ .‬לאשה שהיתה קובלת על בנה לדיין‪ ,‬וכיון דחמת דיינא דהוה יתיב דאין‬ ‫וקטיל‪ ,‬אמרה אין מודעה אנה סורחניה דברי הדין לדיינא‪ ,‬כדון הוא קטיל ליה‪,‬‬ ‫מה עבדת‪ ,‬דרכת עד דחסל מדיניה‪ ,‬וכיון דחסל מדיניה אמ׳ לה מה סורחן הדין‬ ‫בריך עלך‪ ,‬אמרה ליה כד הוה במעיי בעטי‪ ,‬א׳ לה וכדון הוא עבד לך כלום‪,‬‬ ‫אמרה ליה לא‪ ,‬אמ׳ לה לית בהדה מילתא סורחן דכלום‪ .‬תמהו אומות העולם‬ ‫אמרו זו תשובה זו תוכחת‪ ,‬זו אחר זו‪ ,‬לא אתא אלא למתפוגגא עים בנוי‪ .‬ומה‬ ‫הלאיתיך )מיכה ו‪ :‬ג(‪ ,‬א״ר ברכיה למלך ששילח פרוז דוגמה שלו למדינה‪ ,‬מה‬ ‫עשו כל בני המדינה‪ ,‬נטלו אותה ועמדו על רגליהם ופרעו את ראשיהם וקראו‬ ‫אותה באימה וביראה ברתת ובזיע‪ .‬כך אמ׳ הקב״ה לישראל‪ ,‬בניי‪ ,‬הדה קרית‬ ‫שמע פרוז דוגמה שלי הוא‪ ,‬לא הטרחתי עליכם‪ ,‬לא אמרתי לכם שתהו קורין‬ ‫אותה לא עומדים על רגליכם ולא פורעים את ראשיכם‪ ,‬אלא בשבתך בביתך‬ ‫ובלכתך בדרך וג׳ )דברים ו‪ :‬ז(‪ .‬ד״א ומה הלאיתיך )מיכה ו‪ :‬ג(‪ ,‬א״ר יודה בר׳‬ ‫סימון אמ׳ הקב״ה עשר בהמות טהורות מסרתי לך‪ ,‬שלש ברשותך ושבע שאינן‬ ‫ברשותך‪ ,‬אילו שהן ברשותך‪ ,‬שור שה כבשים ושה עזים )דברים יד‪ :‬ד(‪ ,‬ואילו‬ ‫שאינן ברשותך‪ ,‬איל וצבי ויחמור ואקו ודישון וג׳ )דברים י״ד(‪ ,‬לא הטרחתי‬ ‫עליכם‪ ,‬לא אמרתי לכם לעלות בהרים ולהתיגע בשדות ולהביא לפני קרבן מאילו‬ ‫שאינן ברשותך‪ ,‬אלא מאילו שברשותך והן גדילות על אבוסך‪ ,‬שור או כשב או‬ ‫עז כי יולד וג׳ )ויקרא כב‪ :‬כז(‪.‬‬

‫‪203‬‬

‫פסיקתא דרב כהנא‬

‫‪9.7‬‬ ‫ברעתם ישמחו מלך ובכחשיהם שרים )הושע ז‪ :‬ג(‪ .‬וכי מה ראה בשור לעשותו‬ ‫ראש לכל הקרבנות‪ ,‬א״ר לוי למטרונה שיצא עליה שם רע מאחד מגדולי המלכות‪,‬‬ ‫ובדק המלך בדברים ולא מצא בהם ממש‪ .‬מה עשה‪ ,‬עשה סעודה גדולה והושיב‬ ‫אותו האיש בראשם של מסובים‪ .‬כל כך למה‪ ,‬להודיע שבדק המלך בדברים‬ ‫ולא מצא בהם ממש‪ .‬כך לפי שהיו אומות העולם מונים את ישראל ואומרי׳‬ ‫להם אתם עשיתם את העגל‪ ,‬ובדק הקב״ה בדברים ולא מצא בהם ממש‪ ,‬לפיכך‬ ‫נעשה שור ראש לכל הקרבנו׳‪ ,‬שור או כשב או עז וג׳ )ויקרא כב‪ :‬כז(‪.‬‬ ‫‪11.8‬‬ ‫ולא נחם אלהים דרך ארץ פלשתים )שמות יג‪ :‬יז(‪ .‬מלמד שלא ניהגן כדרך הארץ‪.‬‬ ‫ר׳ לוי בשם ר׳ חמא בר חנינה אמ׳ בה תמני שטין‪ .‬דרך הארץ המים מלמעלן‬ ‫והלחם מלמטן‪ ,‬ברם הכא הלחם מלמעלן והמים מלמט׳‪ .‬הלחם מלמעלן‪ ,‬הנני‬ ‫ממטיר לכם לחם מן השמים )שמות טז‪ :‬ד(‪ .‬והמים מלמטן‪ ,‬אז ישיר ישראל‬ ‫את השירה הזאת עלי באר ענו לה )במדבר כא‪ :‬יז(‪ .‬דרך הארץ תלמיד טוען‬ ‫פניס ומהלך לפני הרב‪ ,‬ברם הכא לא ימיש עמוד הענן יומם וג׳ )שמות יג‪ :‬כב(‪.‬‬ ‫דר׳ אר׳ תלמיד מהלך תחילה והרב אחריו‪ ,‬ברם הכא וי״י הולך לפניהם יומם‬ ‫)שמות י״ג‪ :‬כא(‪ .‬דר׳ האר‘ תלמיד מרחיץ את הרב‪ ,‬ברם הכא וארחצך במים‬ ‫)יחזקאל טז‪ :‬ט(‪ .‬דר׳ אר׳ תלמיד מלביש את הרב‪ ,‬ברם הכא ואלבישך רקמה‬ ‫)שם שם ‪/‬יחזקאל ט״ז‪ /‬י(‪ .‬ר׳ סימוי א׳ פורפירין‪ .‬תירגם עקילס פילקטין‪ .‬דר׳‬ ‫אר׳ תלמיד מנעיל את הרב‪ ,‬ברם הכא ואנעלך תחש )יחזקאל ט״ז‪ :‬י(‪ .‬ד׳ הא׳‬ ‫תלמיד טוען את הרב‪ ,‬ברם הכא ואשא אתכם על כנפי נשרים )שמות יט‪ :‬ד(‪.‬‬ ‫דר׳ אר׳ הרב ישן ותלמיד עומד לו על גביו‪ ,‬ברם הכא הנה לא ינום ולא ישן‬ ‫שומר ישראל )תהלים קכא‪ :‬ד(‪.‬‬ ‫‪12.3‬‬ ‫ר׳ יצח׳ פתח סמכוני באשישות וג׳ )שיר השירים ב‪ :‬ה(‪ .‬סמכוני באשישות‪,‬‬ ‫בשתי אישות‪ ,‬באישו של אברהם‪ ,‬ובאישו של חנניה מישאל ועזריה‪ .‬ד״א סמכוני‬ ‫באשישות‪ ,‬בשתי אישות‪ ,‬באישו של מוריה‪ ,‬ובאישו של סנה‪ .‬ד״א סמכוני‬ ‫באשישות‪ ,‬אילו הלכות המאוששות‪ .‬רפדוני בתפוחים )שיר השירים ב(‪ ,‬אילו‬ ‫דברי תורה שריחן טוב כתפוחים‪ .‬כי חולת אהבה אני )שיר השירים ב(‪ ,‬א״ר‬ ‫יצח׳ בראשו׳ היתה הפרוטה מצויה‪ ,‬היה אדם מתאוה דבר משנה ודבר תלמוד‪,‬‬ ‫ועכשיו שאין פרוטה מצויה‪ ,‬וביותר שאנו חולים מן המלכיות‪ ,‬אדם מתאוה‬ ‫לשמוע דבר מקרא ודבר אגדה‪ .‬ד״א כי חולת אהבה אני )שיר השירים ב(‪ ,‬א״ר‬ ‫לוי לבן מלך שעמד מחליו‪ ,‬א׳ פידגוגו ילך לו לאסכלי‪ ,‬אמ׳ המלך עדיין לא בא‬

‫‪appendix‬‬

‫‪204‬‬

‫זיוו של בני מחליו והוא הולך לו לאיסכלי‪ ,‬אלא יתעדן בני שנים שלשה חדשים‬ ‫במאכל ובמשתה ואחר כך הוא הולך לאסכלי‪ .‬כך כיון שיצאו ישראל ממצרים‬ ‫היו ראויין לקבל את התורה‪ ,‬והיו בהם בעלי מומין משיעבוד טיט ולבינים‪ ,‬אמ׳‬ ‫הקב״ה עדיין לא בא זיוון של בניי משיעבו׳ טיט ולבינים והן מקבלין את התורה‪,‬‬ ‫אלא יתעדנו בניי שנים שלשה חדשים בבאר ובמן ובשליו‪ ,‬ואחר כך מקבלין את‬ ‫התורה‪ .‬אמתיי‪ ,‬בחדש השלישי )שמות יט‪ :‬א(‪.‬‬ ‫*‪12.11‬‬ ‫א״ר לוי למלך שהיה מבקש ליקח אשה בת טובים ובת גנסים ואמר אל איקי‬ ‫איני תובע בה‪ ,‬משאני עושה עמה כמה טובות ואחר כך אני תובע בה‪ .‬ראה‬ ‫אותה ערומה והלבישה‪ ,‬ואלבישך ריקמה )יחזקאל טז‪ :‬י(‪ .‬בים והעבירה‪ ,‬ובני‬ ‫ישראל הלכו ביבשה בתוך הים )שמות יד‪ :‬כט(‪ .‬שביים באים עליה והצילה‪ ,‬אילו‬ ‫עמלקיים‪ .‬א״ר לעזר למלך שהיה מבקש ליקח אשה בת טובים ובת גנסים ואמר‬ ‫אל איקי איני תובע בה‪ ,‬משאני עושה עימה כמה טובות אחר כך אני תובע בה‪.‬‬ ‫ראה אותה אצל הנחתום ומילא חיקה קלוסקיות‪ ,‬אצל החנוני והשקה אותה‬ ‫קונדיטון‪ ,‬אצל הפטם ומילה חיקה פטומות‪ ,‬אצל פרקדיס ומילא חיקה פרקדיסין‪.‬‬ ‫אצל הנחתום ומילא חיק׳ קלוסקיות‪ ,‬הנני ממטיר לכם לחם מן השמים )שמות‬ ‫טז‪ :‬ד(‪ .‬אצל החנווני והשקה אותה קונדיטון‪ ,‬אז ישיר ישראל את השירה הזאת‬ ‫עלי באר ענו לה )במדבר כא‪ :‬יז(‪ .‬אצל הפטם ומילא חיקה פטומות‪ ,‬ויגז שלוים‬ ‫מן הים )במדבר יא‪ :‬לא(‪ .‬אצל פרקדיס ומילא חיקה פרקדיסים‪ ,‬ויניקהו דבש‬ ‫מסלע ושמן מחלמיש צור )דברים לב‪ :‬יג(‪ .‬א״ר אבא בר יודן למלך שהיה משיא‬ ‫את בתו וקבע קרטיסין בים ואמ׳‪ ,‬בני רומי לא יחתון לסוריא‪ ,‬ובני סוריא לא‬ ‫יסקון לרומי‪ ,‬וכיון שהשיא את בתו התיר קרטיסים‪ ,‬כך עד שלא ניתנה התורה‪,‬‬ ‫השמים שמים לי״י והארץ וג׳ )תהלים קטו‪ :‬טז(‪ ,‬אבל משניתנה תורה מן השמים‪,‬‬ ‫ומשה עלה אל האלהים )שמות יט‪ :‬ג(‪ ,‬וירד י״י על הר סיני )שמות י״ט‪ :‬כ(‪.‬‬ ‫*‪14.4‬‬ ‫א״ר לוי למטרונה שהכניסה למלך שני הדסים ואיבדה אחד מהם והיתה מצירה‬ ‫עליו‪ ,‬אמ׳ לה המלך שימרי את זה כילו ששמרת את שניהם‪ ,‬כך כיון שעמדו‬ ‫ישר׳ על הר סיני ואמרו כל אשר דבר י״י נעשה ונשמע )שמות כד‪ :‬ז(‪ ,‬איבדו‬ ‫את נעשה‪ ,‬עשו להם עגל מסכה )שמות לב‪ :‬ח(‪ ,‬אמ׳ להם הק׳ שמרו את נשמע‬ ‫כילו ששמרת׳ שניהם‪ .‬וכיון שלא שמעו אמ׳ להם הק׳ ]הקב״ה[ שמעו דבר י״י‬ ‫)ירמיה ב‪ :‬ד( עד שלא תשמעו דברי ירמיה‪ ,‬שמעו דברי תורה עד שלא תשמעו‬ ‫דברי נבואה‪ ,‬שמעו דברי נבואה עד שלא תשמעו דברי תוכחות‪ ,‬שמעו דברי‬ ‫תוכחות עד שלא תשמעו דברי קינתורין‪ ,‬שמעו דברי קינתורין עד שלא תשמעו‬ ‫קל קרנא משרוקיתא )דניאל ג‪ :‬טו(‪ ,‬שמעו בארץ עד שלא תשמעו חוצה לארץ‪,‬‬

‫‪205‬‬

‫פסיקתא דרב כהנא‬

‫שמעו חיים עד שלא תשמעו מתים‪ ,‬ישמעו אודניכן עד שלא ישמעו גופיכן‪,‬‬ ‫ישמעון גופיכן עד שלא ישמ׳ גרמיכון‪,‬‬ ‫‪14.5‬‬ ‫כת׳ כה אמר י״י מה מצאו אבותיכם בי עול כי רחקו מעלי וילכו אחרי ההבל‬ ‫ויהבלו )ירמיה ב‪ :‬ה(‪ .‬א״ר יצחק זהו שמניח ספר תורה ויצא‪ ,‬עליו הכת׳ אומ׳‬ ‫מה מצאו אבותיכם בי עול כי רחקו מעלי )ירמיהו ב(‪ .‬אמ׳ הק׳ לישר׳ בניי‪,‬‬ ‫אבותיכם לא מצאו בי עול ואתם מצאתם בי עול‪ .‬אדם הראשון לא מצא בי עול‬ ‫ואתם מצאתם בי עול‪ .‬למה היה אדם הראשון דומה‪ ,‬לחולה שניכנס הרופא אצלו‪,‬‬ ‫הרופא אמ׳ לו דבר פלוני אכול ודבר פלו׳ לא תאכל‪ ,‬וכיון שעבר על דבריו גרם‬ ‫מיתה לעצמו‪ .‬ניכנסו קרוביו אצלו אמרו לו תאמר שהרופא עובר עליך מידת‬ ‫הדין‪ ,‬אמ׳ להם חס ושלום‪ ,‬אני הוא שגרמתי מיתה לעצמי‪ ,‬כך היה מצוה אותי‬ ‫ואומ׳ לי דבר פלוני אכול ודבר פלוני לא תאכל‪ ,‬וכיון שעברתי על דבריו גרמתי‬ ‫מיתה לעצמי‪ .‬כך ניכנסו כל הדורות אצל אדם הראשון‪ ,‬אמרו לו תאמר שהק׳‬ ‫עובר עליך מידת הדין‪ ,‬אמ׳ להם חס ושלום אני הוא שגרמתי מיתה לעצמי‪ ,‬כך‬ ‫היה מצוה אותי ואו׳ לי מכל עץ הגן אכול תאכל ומעץ הדעת טוב ורע לא תאכל‬ ‫ממנו )בראשית ב‪ :‬יז(‪ ,‬וכיון שעברתי על דבריו גרמתי מיתה לעצמי‪ ,‬דכת׳ כי‬ ‫ביום אכלך ממנו מות תמות )בראשית ב(‪ .‬פרעה לא מצא בי עול ואתם מצאתם‬ ‫בי עול‪ .‬למה היה פרעה דומה‪ ,‬למלך שהלך לו למדינת הים ועמד והפקיד כל‬ ‫מה שהיה לו אצל בן ביתו‪ ,‬לאחר ימים בא המלך ממדינת הים אמ׳ לו תן לי‬ ‫כל מה שהפקדתי אצלך‪ ,‬אמ׳ ליה לא עבדא דידך אנא ולא אפקדת גביי כלום‪,‬‬ ‫מה עשה לו‪ ,‬נטלו ותלאו בגרדון‪ ,‬א׳ ליה עבדך אנא כל מה שאפקדת גביי אנא‬ ‫משלם‪ .‬כך בתחילה א׳ הקב״ה למשה‪ ,‬ועתה לך ואשלחך אל פרעה וג׳ )שמות‬ ‫ג‪ :‬י(‪ ,‬אמ׳ אתו הרשע‪ ,‬מי י״י אשר אשמע בקולו לא ידעתי את י״י וגו׳ )שמות‬ ‫ה‪ :‬ב(‪ ,‬וכיון שהביא עליו עשר מכות א׳‪ ,‬י״י הצדיק ואני ועמי הרשעים )שמות ט‪:‬‬ ‫כז(‪ .‬משה לא מצא בי עול ואתם מצאתם בי עול‪ .‬למה היה משה דומה‪ ,‬למלך‬ ‫שמסר את בנו לפידגוגו א׳ לו אל תהי קורא לבני מורה‪ .‬מה הוא דין לישנא‬ ‫מורה‪ ,‬א״ר ראובן בהדין לישנא יוונים צווחים לשטיא מורוס‪ .‬פעם אחת היקניטו‬ ‫וקרא אתו מורה‪ ,‬אמ׳ לו המלך‪ ,‬כל עצמי הייתי מצוה אותך ואו׳ לך אל תהי‬ ‫קורא לבני מורה ואת קורא לבני מורה‪ ,‬לית עסקיה דערים מהלך עם שטי‪ .‬כך‬ ‫כת׳ וידבר י״י אל משה ואל אהרן ויצום אל בני ישראל )שמות ו‪ :‬יג(‪ ,‬מה צום‪,‬‬ ‫אמר להם אל תהו קוראין לבני מורים‪ ,‬וכיון שהיקניטו על מי מריבה אמר להם‬ ‫משה שמעו נא המורים )במדבר כ‪ :‬י(‪ ,‬א׳ להם הקב״ה כל עצמי הייתי מצוה‬ ‫אתכם ואומ׳ לכם אל תהו קורין לבני מורים ואתם קורין לבניי מורים‪ ,‬לית עסקיה‬ ‫דערים מהלך עם שטי‪ ,‬לכן לא תביא אין כת׳ אלא לכן לא תביאו )במדבר כ‪ :‬יב(‪,‬‬ ‫לא את ולא אחוך ולא אחותך עלין לארעא דישר׳‪ .‬א׳ הקב״ה לישר׳ אבותיכם‬ ‫במדבר לא מצאו בי עול ואתם מצאתם בי עול‪ .‬אני אמרתי להם‪ ,‬זובח לאלהים‬ ‫יחרם )שמות כב‪ :‬יט(‪ ,‬והם לא עשו כן‪ ,‬אלא וישתחוו לו ויזבחו לו )שמות לב‪:‬‬

‫‪appendix‬‬

‫‪206‬‬

‫ח(‪ .‬אחר כל הרעות שעשו מה כת׳‪ ,‬וינחם י״י על הרעה אשר דבר לעשות לעמו‬ ‫)שמות לב‪ :‬יד(‪ .‬א״ר יודה בר סימון א׳ הקב״ה לישראל אבותיכם לא מצאו בי‬ ‫עול ואתם מצאתם בי עול‪ .‬אני אמרתי להם ששת ימים תלקטוהו וביום השביעי‬ ‫שבת לא יהיה בו )שמות טז‪ :‬כו(‪ ,‬והם לא עשו‪ ,‬אלא ויהי ביום השביעי יצאו‬ ‫מן העם ללקוט ולא מצאו )שמות ט״ז‪ /‬כז(‪ ,‬אילו מצאו לקטו‪.‬‬ ‫‪14.7‬‬ ‫וילכו אחרי ההבל ויהבלו )ירמיה ב‪ :‬ה(‪ .‬א״ר יצחק לבן זהבי שיצא עליו שטר‬ ‫חוב והיה מיתיירא ואו׳‪ ,‬תאמר ששטר חוב זה של מאה זהובים ושל מאתים‬ ‫זהובים הוא‪ ,‬א׳ לו בעל חובו אל תתירא‪ ,‬כור של סובים ושל שעורים הוא‪ ,‬מה‬ ‫דהוא פריע הוא‪ .‬כך אמ׳ הקב״ה לישר׳ בניי‪ ,‬ע״ז שאתם להוטים אחריה אינה‬ ‫מדבר של ממש אלא הבל המה מעשה תעתועים וג׳ )שם ‪/‬ירמיהו‪ /‬י‪ :‬טו( לא‬ ‫כאלה חלק יעקב כי יוצר הכל הוא וישראל שבטי נחלתו י״י צבאות שמו )ירמיה‬ ‫י‪ :‬טז(‪ .‬חסילה‪.‬‬ ‫‪21.3‬‬ ‫כי עמך מקור חיים באורך נראה אור )תהלים לו‪ :‬י(‪ .‬ר׳ יוחנן וריש לקיש‪ .‬ר׳‬ ‫יוחנן א׳ חדא‪ ,‬וריש לקיש א׳ תרתיי‪ .‬ר׳ יוחנ׳ א׳ חדא‪ ,‬לאחד שהיה מהלך בדרך‬ ‫עם דימדומי החמה‪ ,‬ובא אחד והדליק לו את הנר וכבה‪ ,‬ובא אחר והדליק לו‬ ‫את הנר וכבה‪ ,‬א׳ מיכן והילך איני ממתין אלא לאורו של בוקר‪ .‬כך אמרו ישר׳‬ ‫לפני הקב״ה‪ ,‬רבון העולמים עשינו לך מנורה בימי משה וכבת‪ ,‬עשר בימי שלמה‬ ‫וכבו‪ ,‬מיכן והילך אין אנו ממתינין אלא לאורך‪ ,‬באורך נראה אור )תהלים ל״ו(‪.‬‬ ‫וריש לקיש אמ׳ תרתיי‪ .‬ריש לקיש א׳‪ ,‬למלך שהיה לו בן והזמין לו אורחים‪ .‬א׳‬ ‫המלך לבנו‪ ,‬בני רצונך לסעוד עם האורחים‪ ,‬א׳ לו לאו‪ ,‬א׳ לו ועם מי את רוצה‬ ‫לסעוד‪ ,‬א׳ לו עמך‪ .‬כך א׳ הק׳ לישר׳‪ ,‬בניי רצונכם לסעוד עם אומות‪ ,‬אמרו לפניו‬ ‫רבון העולמים‪ ,‬אל תט לבי לדבר רע להתעולל עלילות ברשע )תהלים קמא‪:‬‬ ‫ד(‪ ,‬א׳ להם מפני שהן עוללות אין אתם מבקשים לסעוד עמהם‪ ,‬אמרו לפניו‬ ‫רבון העולמים‪ ,‬ובל אלחם במנעמיהם )תהלים קמ״א(‪ ,‬אין אנו חפצים במתנות‬ ‫הנעימות והיפות שלהם‪ ,‬ובמי אנו חפצים‪ ,‬במנות הנעימות והיפות שלך‪ .‬וריש‬ ‫לקיש א׳ חורי‪ ,‬ריש לקיש א׳ למלך שהיה לו בת ובא אחד ותבע בה ולא היה‬ ‫הגון לה‪ ,‬ובא אחר ותבע בה ולא היה הגון לה‪ ,‬וכיון שבא אחר והיה הגון לה‬ ‫ותבע בה אמר קומי הנהרי דאתיא נהוריך‪ .‬כך אמ׳ הק׳ לישר׳‪ ,‬בניי הואיל‬ ‫ואורי הוא אורכם ואורכם הוא אורי‪ ,‬אני ואתם נלך ונאיר לציון‪ ,‬קומי אורי כי‬ ‫בא אורך )ישעיה ס‪ :‬א(‪.‬‬

‫‪207‬‬

‫פסיקתא דרב כהנא‬

‫*‪21.5‬‬ ‫ר׳ שמעון בן יוצדק שלח שאל את ר׳ שמואל בר נחמן‪ ,‬א׳ ליה לפי ששמעתי‬ ‫שאתה בעל הגדה‪ ,‬מאיכן היתה אורה יוצא לעולם‪ ,‬א׳ ליה נתעטף הקב״ה‬ ‫באיצטלית לבנה והיה כל העולם כולו מבהיק מזיו הדרו‪ .‬אמרה ליה בלחישה‪,‬‬ ‫א׳ ליה מקרא מלא הוא‪ ,‬עוטה אור כשלמה נוטה שמים כיריעה )תהלים קד‪:‬‬ ‫ב(‪ ,‬ואת אומרה לי בלחישה‪ ,‬א׳ ליה כשם שאמרו לי בלחישה כך אמרתי לך‬ ‫בלחישה‪ .‬ואילולי שדרשה ר׳ יצחק ברבים לא היה איפשר לאומרה‪ .‬קמיי כן‬ ‫מה הוון אמרין‪ ,‬ר׳ ברכיה א׳ ממקום בית המקדש היתה אורה יוצא לעולם‪ .‬ומה‬ ‫טעמא‪ ,‬והנה כבוד אלהי ישראל בא מדרך הקדים וקולו כקול מים רבים והארץ‬ ‫האירה מכבודו )יחזקאל מג‪ :‬ב(‪ ,‬ואין כבודו אלא בית המקדש דכת׳ כסא כבוד‬ ‫מרום מראשון מקום מקדשינו )ירמיה יז‪ :‬יב(‪.‬‬ ‫*‪23.8‬‬ ‫בחדש )תהלים פא‪ :‬ד(‪ ,‬חדשו מעשיכם‪ .‬שופר )תהלים פ״א( שפרו מעשיכם‪.‬‬ ‫א׳ הק׳ אם שיפרתם מעשיכם לפני הרי אני נעשה לכם כשופר הזה‪ ,‬מה השופר‬ ‫הזה מכניס בזו ומוציא בזו‪ ,‬אף אני עומד מכסא דין ויושב בכסא רחמים ומתמלא‬ ‫עליכם רחמים ומרחם עליכם והופך להם מידת הדין למדת רחמים‪ .‬אימתי‪ ,‬בחדש‬ ‫השביעי )ויקרא כג‪ :‬כד(‪.‬‬ ‫‪24.7‬‬ ‫טוב וישר י״י על כן יורה חטאים בדרך וג׳ )תהלים כה‪ :‬ח(‪ .‬שאלו לחכמה‬ ‫החוטא מהו עונשו‪ ,‬אמרה להם וחטאים תרדף רעה )משלי יג‪ :‬כא(‪ .‬שאלו‬ ‫לנבואה החוטא מהו עונשו‪ ,‬אמרה להם הנפש החוטאת היא תמות )יחזקאל‬ ‫יח‪ :‬ד(‪ .‬שאלו לתורה חוטא מה עונשו‪ ,‬אמרה להם יביא אשם ויתכפר לו‪ .‬שאלו‬ ‫להקב״ה החוטא מהו עונשו‪ ,‬א׳ להם יעשה תשובה ויתכפר לו‪ ,‬הדא היא דכת׳‬ ‫טוב וישר י״י וגו׳ )תהלים כה‪ :‬ח(‪ .‬א״ר פינחס למה הוא טוב שהוא ישר‪ ,‬למה‬ ‫הוא ישר שהוא טוב‪ .‬על כן יורה חטאים בדרך )תהלים כ״ה(‪ ,‬שהוא מורה‬ ‫לחטאים דרך שיעשו תשובה‪ .‬לפיכך הושע מזהיר את ישראל ואו׳ להם שובה‬ ‫ישראל )הושע י״ד(‪.‬‬ ‫‪24.16‬‬ ‫ר׳ לוי ור׳ יצח׳‪ .‬ר׳ לוי אמר‪ ,‬א׳ הקב״ה לירמיה לך אמור לישראל עשו תשובה‪.‬‬ ‫בא ואמ׳ להם‪ ,‬אמרו לו רבינו ירמיה היאך אנו עושין תשובה‪ ,‬באילו פנים אנו‬ ‫באין לפני המקום‪ ,‬לא הכעסנו אותו ולא הקנינו אותו‪ ,‬אותם ההרים והגבעות‬

‫‪appendix‬‬

‫‪208‬‬

‫שהיינו שם עובדים ע״ז אינן קיימים‪ ,‬על ראשי ההרים יזבחו וג׳ )הושע ד‪ :‬יג(‪,‬‬ ‫נשכבה בבשתינו ותכסינו כלימתינו וג׳ )ירמיה ג‪ :‬כה(‪ .‬בא לפני הקב״ה ואמ׳‬ ‫כן‪ ,‬א׳ לו לך אמור להם לא כך הכתבתי לכם בתורתי‪ ,‬ונתתי פני באיש והכרתי‬ ‫אותו מקרב עמו )ויקרא כ‪ :‬ו(‪ ,‬שמא עשיתי לכם כן‪ ,‬אלא לא אפיל פני בכם‬ ‫כי חסיד אני נאם י״י ולא אטור לעולם )ירמיה ג‪ :‬יב(‪ .‬ר׳ יצחק א׳‪ ,‬א׳ הקב״ה‬ ‫לירמיה לך אמור לישר׳ עשו תשובה‪ ,‬בא ואמ׳ להם‪ ,‬אמרו לו רבינו ירמיה היאך‬ ‫אנו עושין תשובה‪ ,‬באילו פנים אנו באים לפני הק׳‪ ,‬לא הכעסנו ולא הקנינו אותו‪,‬‬ ‫אותם ההרי׳ והגבעות שהיינו עובדים ע״ז אינן קיימין‪ ,‬על ראשי ההרים יזבחו‬ ‫וג׳ )הושע ד‪ :‬יג(‪ ,‬נשכבה בבשתינו וג׳ )ירמיה ג‪ :‬כה(‪ .‬בא וא׳ לפני הקב״ה כן‪,‬‬ ‫א׳ לו לך אמור להם אם באים אתם לא אצל אביכם שבשמים אתם באים‪ ,‬כי‬ ‫הייתי לישראל לאב ואפרים בכורי הוא )ירמיהו לא‪ :‬ח(‪.‬‬

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SOURCE INDEX PRK 1.1

1.2 1.3 1.4 1.8 2.5 2.7 2.10 4.1 4.4 4.7 5.3 5.7 5.8 6.1 6.3 6.11 9.4 9.5 9.7 9.11 11.6 11.8 11.13 11.20 12.1 12.3

12.5 12.8

25–32, 37–40, 45, 50, 70–71, 73–74, 93, 127, 140–141, appendix 70, 127, 142 51, 69, 127, 134, 167, appendix 124 62, 118 54 70, 137 59, 80, 132, appendix 48, 54, 56, appendix 47, 62–65, 70, 88, appendix 54, 57 47, 60–61, 64, appendix 49, 81, 105, 133, 170, appendix 58, 74, 133, appendix 51, 53, 80, 137, 139, appendix 49, 55, 65, 138–139, appendix 51, 137 49, 79, 174 53, 75, 79, 90, 93, 100, 178, 183, appendix 23, 83, 160, appendix 54 82, 136, 161 70, 76, 79, 93 70 70 58, 111 32–41, 45–47, 50, 62, 65, 80, 86, 118, 126, 137–138, 161, 173, 180–181, 191, appendix 126 126

12.10 12.11

14.7 15.3 16.8 18.5 19.5 21.1 21.3 21.5 23.7 23.8 23.11 24.4 24.5 24.7 24.8 24.11 24.12 24.16 26.3

126 3–4, 19, 36, 45, 50, 71–72, 123, 126, 138, 165, 171, 181, 191, appendix 85, appendix 49, 53, 65, 85, 113, appendix 84, appendix 70 70 149 74, 141 78 73, appendix 72, 131, appendix 82 88, appendix 88 81 79 57, 89, appendix 83, 93 49, 58 81 57, 69, 89, appendix 49, 54

Nispahim, Vezot Haberachah

139

14.4 14.5

Other Amoraic Midrashic Texts GR 28.3 19 LR 2.4 137 LR 3.6 19 LR 4.4 113 LR 35.12 149 Tannaitic Midrashic Texts Mekhilta of Rabbi Ishmael Pisha 1 132 Pisha 14 131 Vayehi Beshalah petihta 107 Vayehi Beshalah 1 104 Shirta 3 117 Bahodesh 3 138

216 Bahodesh 4 Bahodesh 5

source index 122, 138, 141 4

Mekhilta of Rabbi Shimon b. Yohai 12 131 13 131 Sifre Numbers 84 99 106 131 142 143 191

131 112 131 141 137 139 128

Sifra Vayikra 1.6–9 Nedavah 2.4 Nedavah 2.12 Aharei Mot 13.9 Shemini 1

113 141 134 114 140

Sifre Deuteronomy 114 306 333 313

124 33 124 125

GENERAL INDEX Alter, Robert 55 am ha-arets 86–87, 135, 148, 150, 157 amar hakadosh barukh hu 45, 52–56, 108, 111, 117, 168 aggadic midrash 4–5, 19, 36, 39–40, 98–99, 103–107, 111, 115–116, 118, 120, 147–148, 191 Akiva, see R. Akiva asceticism 164, 178, 180–181 audience 7–8, 17–18, 22, 29–30, 37, 41, 45–46, 49–52, 57–66, 68, 86, 92, 105, 108, 110–112, 119, 143, 151, 155, 165–170, 178–185 Auerbach, Eric 15, 37, 155, 163, 165, 168, 170–175 Augustine, Saint 14, 154, 163, 165, 168–174, 181

desert 3, 34, 36, 70, 76, 171–172, 186 Dohrmann, Natalie B. 12–13, 98, 111, 114–115

Bakhos, Carol 9, 11 Barth, Lewis M. 12, 195 banay 53, 102, 162, 168 bat tovim ubat ganasim 4, 135 Berkowitz, Beth 10, 12, 14, 15, 143, 177, 182–183 Boyarin, Daniel 7–11, 13–14, 22, 24, 28, 49, 52–53, 108–110, 116, 120, 131, 155, 180, 183, 186 Brown, Peter 9, 15, 17, 30, 153–155, 161–62, 164, 167, 171, 175–176, 180–181

Fraade, Steven D. 7, 9, 17, 21, 24, 115, 119, 125–126, 139, 141–143, 147

Cameron, Averil 15, 30, 37, 164, 168, 172–173, 175, 180, 183, 185 Christianity 6, 11–13, 15–16, 30–31, 37, 93, 153–155, 163–187 Chrysostom, John 57, 154, 158, 160, 163, 165–169, 175, 179–183, 185 Cohen, Norman J. 16 Cohen, Shaye 5, 9, 14, 16, 148–152, 155, 157, 190 conversion 14, 18, 153–154, 157 courtship 3, 50, 138, 167, 191 dialogue—in PRK 45, 58–67, 111–118, 170, 179 in tannaitic midrash 103–106, 111–118 in Christian rhetoric 163–170, 179

emotion 3–6, 45, 47, 50–51, 53, 59–66, 98, 104–105, 111–119, 133, 151, 162–164, 173 emperor 71, 79, 156, 175–177, 180, 183, 185 exegesis––relationship to homily 7–9, 45, 97, 99 in mashal 49–52 in amar hakadosh barukh hu statements 52, 55–58 in petihta 46–47 in dialogues 62–65 in tannaitic midrash 100–115

Gager, John G. 159–160 Garden of Eden 28, 33 geonic period 5, 148, 191 golden calf 23, 28, 83, 135, 160, 178 Goodman, Martin 5, 15, 148, 150–152, 190 Gregory of Nyssa 163, 168–169 halakhah 5, 38–40, 62, 80, 98, 111, 113–114, 138–139, 150–151, 190 halakhic midrash 36, 106, 116, 118 Hasan-Rokem, Galit 11, 13, 18, 66 Hayes, Christine 7, 9–11, 14, 21, 23–25, 151, 157 Heinemann, Joseph 7–8, 16, 19, 46, 59, 87, 110, 158, 195 Heschel, Abraham Joshua 121–124, 130 Hezser, Catherine 108 Himmelfarb, Martha 160 Hirshman, Marc 11, 16 holy man 161–162 homiletical midrash 4–5, 8, 16, 36, 39, 100, 116, 147, 190 humility 67, 73–79, 92, 163, 171–178, 189

218

general index

immanence 69–73, 121–134, 142 intimacy 3–6, 15, 20, 26–30, 34, 37, 40, 45, 51–52, 58, 66–73, 82, 92, 97, 118, 120, 123–134, 142–143, 159, 161–170 implied reader 20 implied interpreter 20, 24 incarnation 30, 32, 68, 121, 171, 174–178 indulgence 79–92, 178–183, 189–190

petihta 6, 16, 19, 23, 45–49, 64–67, 97, 100, 102, 110–111, 172, 174 piyyut 148, 156 power 6, 14–16, 28–31, 39–40, 68, 73–78, 85, 92–93, 139–141, 153–154, 163–166, 175–191 private sphere 6, 167–168 Prophets 22, 28, 45–49, 55, 64, 67, 89, 109, 168, 170, 174 qal vahomer

Jaffee, Martin 8–9, 67 Jerome 18–19, 67, 149–150 Jesus 21, 171, 174–176 judgment 4, 81–82, 85–92, 142, 178, 181–183, 187 Kalmin, Richard 7, 9–11, 13, 152, 164 Kugel, James 7, 9, 185 Lapin, Hayim 11, 13–15, 150, 164–165, 184 law, Jewish, see halakhah Roman 114, 156, 160 Levine, Lee 5, 14, 19, 24, 76, 80, 135, 148–153, 159, 190 Levinson, Joshua 11, 13–14 Leviticus Rabbah 6, 9, 16, 18, 45, 66, 97, 99, 101, 148, 190, 195 literary theory 9, 11, 14, 20 Lives 168, 173, 185 luxury 34–37, 40 mashal 3–4, 7–8, 17–18, 20–41, 45, 49–52, 69, 116, 167, 184 Mishnah 10, 12, 14, 38, 48, 143, 147–148, 152 mikva’ot 150 Neusner, Jacob 9, 12, 17–18, 68, 99–100, 120–121, 159, 195 novelty 27, 30–31, 45, 69, 75, 87, 90, 93, 97, 110, 120–123, 156, 179, 186, 189, 190 Pagels, Elaine 12 paideia 175–176 pedagogue 20, 32, 35–36, 39–41, 65, 80, 86, 118, 173 persuasion 4, 13, 15, 18, 20–21, 40–41, 59, 66, 69, 78, 93, 113, 143, 153–154, 164, 171, 175–176, 180, 185–186

112–113, 174

R. Akiva xi, 10, 52, 68, 97, 99, 106, 121–127, 130–134, 182 R. Isaac 31–32, 38–40, 72–74, 84, 131–133 R. Judah the Patriarch 149–153 R. Yohanan 19, 59, 73, 149, 152–153 raisin-cakes 33, 35–36, 41, 46–47, 126 redemption 49–51, 61–64, 81–82, 195, 111, 133, 136–137, 170, 179, 186 repentance 47, 58, 69, 81, 87–90 revelation 118, 122–128, 132–134 ritual baths, see mikva’ot Rosh HaShanah 83, 87, 159, 193–194 Rubenstein, Jeffrey L. 152 sacrifices 25–26, 29, 61, 64, 70, 80, 83, 90 sermo humilis 171 sexuality 167, 180–181 Sarason, Richard 16 Schwartz, Seth 5, 11, 13–14, 148, 150, 155–156, 158, 164 Scott, James C. 15, 176–178, 184 Severian of Gabala 58–59 Sinai, Mount 3, 25, 33–34, 40, 47, 58, 71, 85, 111, 122–126, 133, 138–139, 167 Sitz im Leben 16–17, 119 Song of Songs 25–29, 33–35, 46–47, 56, 67, 74, 102, 105, 107, 116, 126, 130–133, 136, 167, 190 Stern, David 7–9, 12–13, 16, 20, 24, 32, 47, 50, 52, 55–56, 67–68, 110, 116, 130, 149 Stern, Elsie 17, 68, 73, 84 sunkatabasis 175 synagogue 5, 16–19, 58, 68, 149–150, 156, 158–160, 172, 193 tabernacle 25–27, 29, 31, 61–62, 70–71, 118, 127, 141, 167

general index

219

talmud lomar 103, 106–108, 114 Tannaitic midrash xi, 3–4, 6, 8, 10, 16–19, 30, 49, 69, 97–143, 172, 174, 189–190 terms of endearment 51, 55, 168 Tisha b’Av, the weeks surrounding 68, 73, 194

Uthemann, Karl-Heinz 169–170

Urbach, Ephraim Elimelech 151

zodiac

5, 12, 135,

58–59,

Yadin, Azzan 9–10, 12, 106, 108, 119, 121 Young, Frances 57, 185 Yuval, Israel 12, 15, 184 159